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DaCos'ta, Izaak, ilnttrh. 1798-1860.)— Tlie Sabbath.— An 
Invocation, .-----■ 9 

Dam'pier. Wiluam, (Engl.. 1G52-171.J.)— Upon his own 
Voyages.— Close of the Voyage to New Holland, 13 

Da'na, Chari.ks Ander.<?on, (Amer., 1819- .)— Via Sacra. 
—To R. B— Manfiilness, .... 16 

Da'na, James DwiouT, (.Jmer., 1813- .)— An Atoll, - 18 

Da'na, Richard Henry, (Avier., 1787-1879.)— The Little 
Beach Bird. -The Husband and Wife's Qrave.—The 
Island.— Haunted —Washington Allston.— The Past. 
—The Orowth <if Love, .... ai 

Da'na, RicHAHU Henry, Jr., iAmer., 181.'>-188i.)— An Ice- 
berg.— Furling the Mainsail off Cape Horn.— Under 
Full Sail— The Pahn-Tree. - - - - 31 

Daniel. Samuel. {Engl., 1563-1C19.)— Richard II. on the 
Morning before his Murder.— Sonnet to Sleep.— Epis- 
tle to the Countess of Cumberland.— Uncertainty of 
the early History of Nations, - - - 37 

Dan'tk, (Ital.. 1 St;.")-! 3il.)- Dante's first Sight of Beatrice. 
—A Vision of Beatrice.— In Praise of Beatrice.— The 
Death <->f Beatrice.— Looking forward to Beatrice.— 
Dante upon his Exile.— The Supremacy of the Roman 
Eini3erors. — The Idea of the Diviim Coinmedia. — 
Dante meets the Shade of Virgil.— At the Entrance 
of the Inferno. — Francesca da Rimini.— Farinata and 
Cavalcanta. — The Tortures in Malbolge. — Dis or 
Satan.— Approaching the Mountain of Purgatory.— 
A Vision of the Trinity, - - - - - ii 

Dar'ley, George, (Bri7., 1785-1849.)— The Queen of May. 
—The Fairies. ---... 67 

Darwin, Charles Robert, (fiij/?.. 1809-1882.)— The Strug- 
gle for Existence.— Nectar-bearing Flowers and Nec- 
tar-feeding Insects.— Limits of the Theory of Natural 
Selection.— Complex Emotions common to Man and 
Animals.— The Kelp. .... gg 

Dar'wtn, Erasmus, (Engl. 1731-1802.)— The Goddess of 
Botany— Death of Eliza at the Battle of Minden.— 
The Stars, 78 

I)'.\rBiGNt: (do-been-yay'), J. H. Merle. See Merle 

D'AUBIGNE, - - - - - 82 

Daudet ido-day'). Alphonse. (Fr., 1840- .)— The Dolo- 
belles.— Zizi tries to Speak.— In the .Amphitheatre. 82 




Daudet (d(5-day'), Ernest, (Jf^*., 1837- .)— Henriette de 
Maignelay. — An ancient Chateau, - - - 91 

Dav'enant, Sir William, (Engl., 1605-166S.)— Description 
of Birtha.— The Soldier to his Mistress.— A Song, 94 

Da'vidson, Lucretia IVIaria, (Anier., 1808-1825.) — The 
Here and tlie Hereafter. — Bachelorsat Auction.— The 
Family Time-piece.— The P^ear of Madness, - 97 

Da'vidson, Margaret Miller, {Amer., 1823-1838.)— To 
her Sister Lucretia. — Dedication of Lenore. — Invoca- 
tion to Spring. — Morning. — On the Departure of the 
Year 1837, 100 

Da'vies, Sir John, (Enejl.. 1570-1626.) — Music and Danc- 
ing. — The Moon and the Tides. — On Himself. — Aspira- 
tions for Immortality, . . - . io6 

Da'vis, Andrew Jackson, {Amer., 1826- .) — The 

Genesis and Destiny of the Universe, - - - 109 

Da'vis, Henry Winter, {Amer., 1817-1865.)— The Evils of 
Disunion.— Some Lessons of the Civil War, - 113 

Da'vis, Jefferson, (Amer., 1808- .) — Design of his 
Rise and Fall. — Originally opposed to Secession.— 
The Allegiance of the Citizen. — The Evacuation of 
Richmond. — His Capture.— Final Conclusion, - 118 

Da'vis, John, (Engl., 1540-1605.)— In Search of a North- 
west Passage, ------ 129 

Da'vis, Sir John Francis, (Engl., 1795- .) — The Civili- 
zation of the Chinese. — DiflEusion of Education in 
China.— The Festival of Agriculture in China, - 135 

Da'vis, Rebecca Harding, (Amer., 1835- .)— Mother 
and Son, ------ 139 

Da'vis, Thomas Osborne, (Irish, 1814-1845.)— The Wel- 
come, .--.... 143 

Da'vy, Sir Humphry, (Engl., 1778-1828.) — Drowning 
Fishes. — The Office of Pain. — Indestructibility of Mind. 
— Life. — Thought. — The Changeable and the Un- 
changeable, ------ 145 

Dawes, Rufus, (.4mer., 1803-1859.)— Love unchangeable. — 
Sunrise from Mount Wasliington, - - 152 

Daw'son, John William, (Canadian, 1820- .) — The Be- 
ginning of Creation, - - - - - 154 

Day, Thomas, (Engl., 1748-1789. )— A young Philosopher.- 
A Lesson in Astronomy.— Jack-o'-the-Lantern, 160 

De Amicts (de-a-mee'chees), Edmondo, (Ital., 1846- .)— 
Constantinople, . . . - . J69 

Deems, Charles Force, (Amer., 1820- .) — The Useful- 
ness of Beauty, -..-.. 173 

De-foe', Daniel, (Engl, 1661-1731.) — The True-born 
Englishman's Pedigree. — Robinson Crusoe's Ship- 
wreck. — Discovering a Footprint. — London in July, 
1665.— London in September, 1665. — Precautions dur- 
ing the Plague.— The Cares of ill-gotten Wealth, 175 

De For'est, John William, (Amer., 1826- .)— A Cau- 
cus. —An Outloolc on the Desert. — In a Caiion, - 198 



Dk Kay, Charles, (Amer., 1849- .)— Wood Laurel.— 
TheTornado.— Robber Blue-back, - - 204 

Dek'ker, Thomas, (Engl., 1575-1640.) — Modest and Im- 
modest Women.— Life at Com"t. — On Sleep, - 204 

De la RAirffiE (ra-mayO, Louisa, (Engl., 1840- .) — Striv- 
ings against Natm-e.— The Fountains of Rome, - 210 

Delavigne (de-la-vee'ny), Jean Casimir, (Fr., 1793-1843.) 
—Waterloo, - ----- 217 

Delille (de-leel'), Jacques, {Fr., 1738-1813.)— To the Sea, 231 

De Mille, James, (Canadian, 183.3-1880. ) — Arrival in 
Naples.— The Grotto of the Sibyl, - - -223 

Demosthenes (de-mos'the-nees), (Greek, 384—322 b.c.) — 
Speech against Couon.— Exordium to the Oration on 
the Crown.- His Personal and PubUc Character.— 
What ^Escbines should have done.— The Peace with 
Philip.— The official Conduct of Demosthenes . —In- 
vective against ^schines. — Demosthenes and the 
People of Athens . — Demosthenes not responsible for 
the Defeat.— Summation of his Administration.— 
Peroration of the Oration on the Crown, - - 226 

Den'ham, Sir John, (Ewgr^, 1615-1GG8.)— Description of the 
Thames.— Elegy upon Cowley, - - - 246 

Den'nie, Joseph, (Amer., 1768-1812.)— The Pleasures of 
Books, 349 

De Quin'cey, Thomas, (Engl., 1785-1859.)— De Quincey at 
Twenty-eight. —De Quincey at Thirty-two.— Oriental 
Opium-dreams. — Opium-dreams of Struggle.— De 
Quincey at Forty.— De Quincey"s Daughters.— Life at 
Lasswade. — Two Eras in Greek Literature. — Joan of 
Arc— The three Ladies of Sorrow, - - - 251 

Der'by (dar'be), KARh of, (Engl. 1799-1869.)— On Ti-ans- 
lating Homer.— Vulcan forges the Armor of Achilles, 281 

Derzhavin (der-zha'win), Gabriel, (Russian, 1743-1816.) — 
Ode to God. — Monody on Prince Mestchasky, - 287 

Descartes (de-karf), Rene, (Fr., 1596-1650.)— Do Ani- 
mals think ?— The Nature of Ideas.— Being and Non- 
being, -.-...- 292 

De Vere, Sir Aubrey, (Irish, 1788-1846.) — Lady Jane Gray 
in Prison.— Columbus.— Diocletian at Salona. — Time 
misspent, ...... 296 

De Verb, Maximilian Schele, (Amer., 1820- .)— The 
Peat-moors, ..-.-. 300 

De Vere. Thomas Aubrey, (Irish, 1814- .)— The Ascent 
of the Alps.— Sorrow.- A Churchyard. — The true 
Blessedness, ....-- 303 

Dew'ey, Orville, (Amer., 1794- .)— The Problem of 
Physical Pain.— The Problem of Death, - - 308 

Di'az, Abby Morton, (Amer., 1821- .)--An Old-time 
School-marm, .-..-- 315 

Dib'den, Charles, (£>i(/L, 1745-1814.)- Poor Jack.— Tom 
Bowling, 316 



Dick, Thomas, (Scof., 1775-1857.)— The Immensity of the 
Universe. ...--- 319 

DiCK'ENS, Charles. (Engl., 1812-1870.)— Sam Weller's Val- 
entine.— Miss Sally Brass.— The Brown Forester of 
the Mississippi. —Dr. Blimber's School.— Paul and 
Mrs. Pipchin.— The Voice of the Waves.— An En- 
chanted Dwelling.— Through the Storm.— The Child 
of the Marshalsea. — Mrs. Bao^nefs Birthday, - 321 

Diderot (de-dro'). Denis, (J^., 1713-1784.)— Plan of the 
Encyclopedie.— Upon History.— Inventors and Dis- 
coverers. — Origin and Uses of Knowledge. — The Lit- 
erary World classeil.— Early Share of D" Alembert 
and Diderot in the Encyclopedie, - - - 3.54 

Dies \rx : The Original and a Version, - - 360 

DiLKE (dilk), Sir Charles Wentworth, (Engl., 1843- .) 
—Greater Britain.- Tlie Celtic Immigration.— The 
French-Canadians.— The Cornfields of the North- 
west. — Tlie Physical Conformatiuii of North America. 
— The Indians of the Plains.— Brigham Young.— Sim- 
ilarits' among Chinamen. — The Monroe Doctrine. 
— Squatter Aristocracy in Australia. —The Extent 
of Greater Britain, ----- 363 

DiM'iTRY, Ch^vrles, (^nie?-., 1838- .)— Viva Italia. - 372 

Di'MOND, William, (Engl., 1780-1814.)— The Mariner's 
Dream, ------- 374 

Disraeli (diz-ra'le), Benjamin, (Sngri., 1805-1881.) — Alroy's 
Vision of the Kings. — Venice. — Greece. — Jerusalem. — 
Mr. Phoebus's Views on Art and Education, - 376 

Disraeli (diz-ra'le), Isaac, (Engl., 1766-1848.)— Palingene- 
sis. — Solitude and Genius, . - - - 390 

Dix, John Adams, (Ainer., 1798-1870.)- The Draft-Riot 
Proclamation. — Rural Life and EmbelUshraent, - 395 

Dix, Morgan, (Avier., 1827- .)— The Conditions of Per- 
fect Development, . - - - - 400 

Dix'on, Willlam Hepworth. (Engl. 1821-1879. )— The 
Death of Admu-al Blake.— The lilack, Red, and Yel- 
low Man.- A Century of White Progress, - 402 

Doane (done). George Washington, (Amer., (1799-1859.) 
—What is that. Mother ? - - - - 407 

Do'bell. Sydney Thompson, (Engl., 1824-1874.) — The 
Ruins of Ancient Rome. — To America. — How 's my 
Boy ? 409 

Dob'son, Henry Austin, (Engl . 1840- .)— More Poets 
Yet.— Angel Vesitants.— Give us but Yesterday, 412 

Dodd'ridge. Philip, (Eh^Z., 1702-1751.)— Vindication of his 
Religious Opinions.— Hark, the Glad Sound —Awake, 
ye Saints.— Ye Golden Lamps, - - - 414 

Dodge, Mary Abigail, (Amer., 1838- .>— Intimacy .— 
Fi.slung.— Success in Life, . - . . 419 

Dodge, IMary BIapes, (Amer., 1838- .)— The Day of the 
Skating Race.— In the Canon.— The two Mysterie.s, - 427 



DouG'soN, Charles Luttrell, (Engl., 1830- .)— The 
Mock Turtle's Story.— The W alrus and the Carpenter, 433 

DoDs'LEY, Robert, {E7igl.. 170S-1764.)— The Parting Kiss, 437 

DoM'ETT, >.LFRED, (Eityl., 1811- .1 — A Christmas 
Hymn, - - 438 

Don'aldson, John William, (Enyl., 1811-1861.)— Etymo- 
logical Studies.— The Utility of Philological Studies.— 
The Origin of Language, ... - 439 

Don'elly, Ignatius, (Amcr., 1831- .1— The Irish Race, 
Descendants of the Atlanteans, - - - •1-14 

Dunne (don), John, (Euyl., 1573-1631.)— The Soul's Flight 
to Heaven.- Sonnet to Death.— Elegy on Mistress 
Elizabeth Dnu-y.— A Valediction forbidding Mourn- 
ing.— The Last Will and Testament, - - 44() 

Do'RAN, John, (Brit., 1807-1878.)- The Style Royal.— 
Visit of George III. ami Queen Charlotte to the City 
of London. —Time of the World's Creation, - 451 

Dor'ner, Is.\.\g August, (Germ., 1809- .)— Ludwig 
Lavater.— Johann George Hamann, - - 456 

Dorr, Julia C. R., (Amer., 1825 .)— Two Brothers.— 
Heirship.— Somewhere.— The Guest, - - 4C0 

Dor' SET, Earl of, (Engl., 1637-1706.)— To all ye Ladies 
now on Land, - ... - - 465 

DouG'LAS, Gawin, (Scot., 1474-1521.)— A May Morning, 467 

Doug'lass, Frederick, (Amer., 1817- .)— Learning to 
read.— Learning to write.— In the Baltimore Ship- 
yard.— Work without Wages.— Hires his Time.— Ths 
Runaway Slave in New York.— How he got the Name 
of Douglass, ------ 469 




DA COSTA, IZAAK, a Dutch poet and theo- 
logian, boi'u at Amsterdam in 1798, died there 
in 1860. He was of Hebrtnv descent, but be- 
came a Christian at the age of tAventy-four. 
Previously to this he had taken the degree of 
Doctor of Law at Leyden, and had also given 
evidence of high poetic genius. He was an 
intimate friend of Bilderdijk, whose poetical 
works he edited. He took a deep interest in 
the missions for the Jews, and towards the 
close of his life was the director of a seminary 
at Amsterdam, set on foot b\ the Free Church 
of Scotland. He wrote largely upon theo- 
logical topics ; but his reputation rests mainly 
upon his poems After the death of Bilderdijk 
(1831), Da Costa was recognized as the fore- 
niost poet of the Netherlands. In his poetical 
as w^ell as in his religious and political views he 
was greatly influenced by Bilderdijk. He 
was a member of nearly all the learned 
Societies of the Netherlands. His principal 
works are : a translation of the Prometheus 
of ^schylus (1820); Alphonsus I., a tragedy 
(1821) ; PoeziJ (1821-22) : the hymn, God met 
Otis (1826) ; Feestliedern (1828) ■ Vijf-en-twintig 
Jahren (1840); Hagar (1852); De Slag van 
Nieupoort (1857), and De Mensch en de Dich- 
ter. A collection of his Poems, in three 
volumes, appeared in 1861-62. 



On the seventli day reposing, lo I The great 

Creator stood — 
Saw the glorious work accomplished — saw that it 

was good : — 
Heaven, Earth, Man, and Beast have being ; 

Day and Night their courses run. — 
First Creation — infant Manhood — earliest Sabbath: 

— It is done! 

On the seventh day reposing. Jesus tilled his 
sainted tomb. 

From his spirit's toil retreating while he Itroke 
man's fatal doom. 

Twas a new Creation bursting, brighter than the 
primal one. 

'Tis Fulfilment — Reconcilement: 'tis Redemp- 
tion : — It is done I 


When Homer fills his fierce war-trump of glory, 
And wakes his miglity lyre's harmonious word, 

Whose soul Init thrills enraptured at the story 
As thrilleil old Ilium's ruins, when they heard. 

Maeonian swan ! that shakes the soul, when 

Rushing — or melts the heart in strains subUme : 
Strong as the heart of Hector, lifted proudly, 

Sweet as his widow's tears, in watching-time ! 

Though still thy strains song's glorious crown 

Though age to age kneel lowly at thy shrine, 
Yet, (O, forgive me, venerable spirit !) 

Thou leav'st a void within this heart of mine. 

My counti-y is the land of sunbeams ; Heaven 
Gave me no cradle in the lukewarm West : 

The g]o^\• of Libyan sands, by hot winds driven, 
Is like the thirst of song within my breast. 

What is this fray to me — these battle-noises 
Of Mortals led bv weak DivinitiesV 


I must hear lusher iiules and holier voices. 
Not the mere clods of beauteous tilings like 

What are these perished vanities ideal 
Of thee — old Grecian bard, and following 
throng ? 
Heaven, heaven, must wake the rapturous and 
tlie real — 
The sanctified, the sacred soul of song. 

Can they do this, the famed Hellenic teachers ; 

Or Noi'tiiern bards? — O, no! 'tis not for them ; 
'Tis for the inspired, the God-anointed preachers — 

The holy prophets of Jerusalem. 

O privileged race I sprung forth from chosen 
fathers — 
The son of Jesse, and his fragrant name ! 
Within my veins thy holy life-blood gathers. 
And tracks the sacred source from whence it 

Angelic Monarch's Son ; the great Proclaimer. 

The great Interpreter of God's decree ! 
Herald, at once of wrath, and the Redeemer ! 

Announcing hopes— announcing agony ! 

The seraphs sing their " Holy, holy, holy !" 

Greeting the Godhead on his awful tlirone : 
And Earth repeats Heaven's song — thougli far 
and lowly — 
Poured, 'midst the brightness of the dazzling 

By safety-girded nngels. Hallowed singers ! 

Yours is the Spirits spiritual melody :— 
Tou(;h now the sacred lyre with mortal fingers : 

Aspirers I Earth is gazing tremblingly. 

My heart springs up : its earthly bonds would 

Upon the pulses of that hymn to mount ; 
My lips are damp with the pale blights of fever. 

And my hot blood grows stagnant at its fount. 


My Father ! give me breath, and thought, and 
power ! 
My heart shall heave with your pure, hallowed 
words ; 
Hear ! if ye hear, the loud-voiced psalm shall 
From East to West, its vibrating accords. 

Inspire I if ye inspire, tlie glad Earth, reeling 
Witli rapture, shall Gotl's glory echo round ; 

And G(jd-deniers. low in ashes kneeling. 
Blend their subjected voices in the sound. 

O, if my tongue can sing the Lord of ages, 
The Ruler, the Almighty. King of kings ; 

He who the flaming seraphim engages, 
His watchers — while he makes the clouds his 


Spread, spread your pinions— spread your loftiest 
pinions — 

Spirit of song, for me — for me ! — in vain 
To the low wretchedness of Earth's dominions 

I seek your heavenly, upward course to rein ! 

Wake, lyre ! break forth, ye strings ! let raptvu^e's 
Soar, swell, surprise, gush, glow ! — thou heart 
be riven ! 
Pour. pour, the impassioned, overflowing torrent I 

The hymns are hymns of heaven. 
— Introduction to Hymn on Providence, 

DAMPIER, William, an English navigatoi- 
and adventurer, born about 1652, died about 
1712. He went to sea at an early age, served 
in the war against the Dutch, and afterwards 
became overseer of a plantation in Jamaica. 
After a while he spent three years with a 
party of logwood-cutters on the Bay of Cam- 
peachy, and wrote an account of his observa- 
itons in that region. In 1679 he crossed the 
Isthmus of Darien, with a party of bucaneers, 
who captured numerous Spanish vessels, and 


pillaged several towns on the Peruvian coast. 
In 1684 he sailed from Virginia with an expe- 
dition which cruised along the coast of 
Chili. Peru, and the western coast of Mex- 
ico, making numerous depredations upon the 
Spaniards. Afterwards he embarked for the 
East Indies, touching at the great island now 
known as Australia. He arrived at England 
in 1691, and not long afterwards publislied 
his Voijnye round the World. In 1609, 
having been put in command of a sloop-of- 
war. he was sent on a voyage (jf discovery to 
the South Sea. He explored the west and 
northwest shores of AustraUa, and the coasts 
of several neighboring islands, and gave his 
name to a small archipelago, and to the strait 
between Papua and what was then called 
New Britain. After innumerable adventures 
he finally made his way back to England in 
1701. Two years afterwards, being about ti) 
set out on a new expedition, he put forth a 
brief narrative of that voj'age, intimating 
that at a future time he should publish a 
more extended account. To this narrative he 
prefixed a characteristic preface, a portion of 
which is here given, as originally written by 


It has almost always been the Fate of those who 
have made new Discoveries to be disesteemed and 
shghtly spoken of, by such as either have had no 
true ReUsh and Value for the Things themselves 
that are discovered, or have had some Prejudice 
against the Persons by whom the Discoveries were 
made. It would be vain therefore and unreason- 
able in me to expect to escape the Censure of all. 
or to hope for better Treatment than far Worthier 
Persons have met with before me. But this Sat- 
isfaction I am sure of having, that the Things 
themselves in the Discovery of which I have been 
imployed, are most worthy of our Diligentest 


Search and Inquiry ; being the various and wonder- 
ful "Works of God in different Parts of the World : 
And however unfit a Person I may be in other re- 
spects to have undertakcJi this Task, yet at least I 
have given a faithful Account, and I have found 
some Things undiscovered by any before, and 
which may at least be some Assistance and Direc- 
tion to better qualitied Persons who shall come 
after 7ne. 

It lias been Objected against me by some, that 
my Aciounts and Description of Things are dry 
and jejune, not filled with variety of pleasant 
Matter, to divert and gratify the Curious Reader. 
How far this is true, I must leave to the World to 
judge. But if I have been exactly and strictly 
careful to give only True Relations and Descrip- 
tions of Things (as I am sure I have) ; and if my 
Descriptions be such as may be of use not only to 
my self (which I have already in good measure ex- 
perienced) but also to others in future Voyages ; 
and likewise to such Readers at home as are more 
desirous of a Plain and Just Account of the true 
Nature and State of the Things described, than of 
a Polite and Rhetorical Narrative : I hope all the 
Defects of my Stile, will meet with an easy and 
ready Pardon. . . . 

I know there are some who are apt to slight my 
Accounts and Descriptions of Things, as if it was 
an easie Matter and of little or no Difficulty to do 
all that I have done, to visit little more than the 
Coasts of unknown Countries, and make short and 
imperfect Observations of things only near the 
Shore. But whoever is experienced in these 
Matters, or considers Things impartially, will be of 
a very different Opinion. And only one who is 
sensible, how backward and refractory the Seamen 
are apt to be in long Voyages when they know 
not whither they are going, how ignorant they are 
of the Nature of the Winds and the shifting 
Seasons of the Monsoons : and how little even the 
Officers themselves generally are skilled in the 
variation of the Needle and the Use of the Azi- 
muth Compass ; besides the Hazard of all outward 
Accidents in strange and unknown Seas : Any 

willia:.! uampier. is 

one, I say, who is sensible of these Difficulties, 
will be much more pleased at the Discoveries and 
Observations I have been able to make, than dis- 
pleased that I did not make more. . . . 

For the better apprehending the Course of this 
Voyage, and the Situation of the places mentioned 
in it, I have here, as in the former Volumes, 
caused a Map to belngraven. with a prick'd Line, 
representing to the Eye the wliole Tlu-ead of the 
Voyage at one View : liesides Draughts and Fig- 
ures of particular Places, to make the Descriptions 
I have given of them more intelligible and use- 
ful. . . . 

The time and place of Dampier's death are 
not recorded. The last mention of him is 
that in 1708-1711 he accompanied Woodes 
Rogers, as pilot in a voyage round the world. 
During this expedition the town of Guayaquil 
was captured, Dampier having the command 
of the artillery. His works have been sev- 
eral times republished, and abstracts of them 
are to be found in many collections of Voyages 
and Travels. He confined himself mainly to 
describing the various cmmtries the coasts 
of which he visited, their inhabitants, natu- 
ral history, and productions. His nautical 
observations evince much professional knowl- 
edge, and his knowledge of natural history, 
though not strictly scientific, is accurate, and 
his descriptions are of unusual value. Though 
he passed through numerous stirring advent- 
ures, he describes these only briefly, and in 
a modest and un affected manner. Thus of 
the conclusion of his last recorded voyage he 
merely says — and these are the last known 
of his writings— though he lived several years 
longer : 


On May 18, 1700, in our return, we arrived 
again at Tymor. June 21, we past by part of the 
Hand Java. July 4, we anchored in Batavia- 


Road ; and I went ashore, visited the Dutch (ien- 
eral, and desired the Privilege of buying Provis- 
ions that I wanted ; which was granted me. In 
this road we lay till the 17th of Oefo6er following ; 
when having fitted the Ship, recruited my Self 
with Provisions, filled all my water, and the Sea- 
son of the Year for returning towards Europe be- 
ing come ; I set sail from Batavia, and on the 
19th of Deceml)er made the Cape of Oood Hope ; 
whence departing Jan. 11, we made the Island of 
Santa Helena on the 21st ; and February the 21st, 
the Island of Ascension ; near to whicli my Ship 
having sprung a Leak which could not be stop- 
ped, foundered at Sea ; With much difficulty we 
got ashore, where we liv'd on Goats and Turtle ; 
and on the 26th of February found, to our great 
Comfort, on the S. E. side of a high Mountain 
about half a mile from its top, a Spring of fresh 
Water. I returned to England in the Canterbury 
East India Ship. For which wonderful Deliver- 
ance from so many and great Dangers, I think my 
self bound to return continual Thanks to Almighty 
God : whose Divine Providence if it shall please 
to bring me safe again to my Native Country 
from my present intended voyage ; I hope to 
publish a particular Account of all the material 
Things I observed in the several Places which I 
have now but barely mentioned. 

DANA, Charles Anderson, an American 
journalist, born at Hinsdale, N. H., in 1819. 
At the age of tw^enty he was entered at Har- 
vard College, but remained there only two 
years; after which he became a member of 
the Brook Farm Community. This enter- 
prise having proved unsuccessful. Mr. Dana, 
in conjunction with George Ripley, John S. 
Dwight, and others established TJie Harbin- 
ger, a weekly journal devoted to social reform 
and general literature. In 1847 he went upon 
the editorial staff of the New York Tri- 
bune, being for several years, down to 1861, 
the managing editor. From 1862 to 1865 he 


was Assistant Secretary of War. In 1866 he 
took charge of the Chicago Republican. In 
1868 he, with others purchased the New York 
Sun, a small daily newspaper, which under 
the charge of Mr. Dana acquired a large cir- 
culation and a wide influence. In politics 
The Sun professed to be independent of par- 
ty ; but for the first few years its tendencies 
were decidedly with the Republican party, 
afterwards, quite as decidedly with the Dem- 
ocratic party. 

Mr. Dana, in conjunction with his Tribune 
associate, George Ripley, edited Appleton's 
American Cyclopoidia (1855-18G3) and also a 
thoroughly revised edition (1873-1877.) He 
prepared The Household Book of Poetry, the 
first edition of which appeared in 1858 ; and 
numerous other editions, with considerable 
additions subsequently. All the verse which 
we have from Mr. Dana was written during 
early manhood. 


Slovcly along the crowded street I go 

Marking with reverent look each passer's face 
Seeking, and not in vain, in each to trace 

That primal soul whereof he is the show. 
For here still move, by many eyes unseen, 

The blessed gods that erst Olympus kept ; 

Through every guise these lofty forms serene 

Declare the all-holding Life hath never slept ; 
But known each thrill that in man's heart hath 

And every tear that his sad eyes have wept ; 
Alas for us ! the lieavenly visitants — 

We greet them still as most unwelcome guests, 
Answering their smile with hateful looks 

Their sacred speech with foolish, bitter jests ; 
But oh ! what is it to imperial Jove 
That this poor world refuses aU his love ? 


TO R. B. 

Beloved friend ! they say that thou art dead, 
Nor shall our asking eyes behold thee more, 

Save in the company of the fair and dread. 
Along that radiant and immortal shore. 
Whither thy face was turned for evermore. 

Thou wert a pilgrim toward the True and Real, 
Never forgetful of that infinite goal : 
Salient, electrical, thy weariless soul, 

To every faintest vision always leal. 

Ever midst phantoms made its world ideal. 
And so thou hast a most perennial fame, 

Though from the earth thy name should perish 
quite : 
When the dear sun sinks golden whence he came, 

The gloom, else cheerless, hatli not lost his light ; 
So in our lives impulses born of thine. 
Like fireside stars across the night shall shine. 


Dear, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; 
For, like a god toiling iti earthlj- slavery, 
Fronting thj' sad fate with a joj'ous bravery, 
Each darker day a sunnier mien thou wearest. 
No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual 
smile : 
No pain is keenenough that it has power 

Over thy childlike love, that all the while 
Upon this cold earth builds its heavenly bower : 
And thus with thee bright angels make their 
Bringing thee stores of strength where no man 
knoweth : 
The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling. 
That forth through each least tiling in Nature 

In thee, oh. truest Hero, deeper floweth : — 
With joy I bathe, and many souls beside 
Feel a new life in the celestial tide. 

DANA, Jaisies Dwight, An American geol- 
ogist and author, born at Utica, N. Y., in 
1813. After his graduation at Yale College 


in 1833, he was appointed teacher of inathe- 
matics to the midshipmen of the United States 
Navy, and sailed to the Mediterranean. On 
his return in 1835, he became assistant to Pro- 
fessor SiHiman at Yale. Three years later he 
accompanied the Wilkes exploring expedition 
as geologist and mineralogist, and afterwards 
prepared for publication the reports of that 
expedition. In 1846 he became one of the edi- 
tors of the American Journal of Science and 
Arts, and in 1855, succeeded Professor Sil- 
liman in the chair of Chemistry and Zoology 
at Yale. He lias published a work on Min- 
eralogy (1837) ; Zoophytes (1846) ; Geology of 
the Pacific (l8-id)\ Crustacea (1852-4) ; Coral 
Reefs and Islands (1853) : Science and the Bi- 
ble (1856-7) ; Manual of Geology (1862) ; a 
Text Book of Geology (1864) ; Coral and Coral 
Islands (1872), and The Geological Story brief- 
ly told (1875). 


The atoll, a quiet scene of grove and lake, is ad- 
mirably set off by the contrasting ocean. Its 
placid beauty rises to grandeur when the storm 
rages, and the waves foam and roar about the 
outer reefs ; for the child of the sea still rests qui- 
etly, in unheeding and dreamy content. This 
coral -made land is firm, because, as has been 
already explained, it is literally sea-bom, it hav- 
ing been built out of sea-products, by the aid of 
the working ocean. And so with the groves : 
they were planted by the waves ; and hence 
the species are those that can defy the encroach- 
ing waters, and meet the various conditions in 
which they are placed. The plants therefore take 
firm hold of the soil, and grow in all their natural 
strength and beauty. 

Only an occasional coral island has a completely 
encircling gi-ove, and is hence a model atoll. But 
the man}' in which a series of green islets surround 
the lagoon are often but little less attractive, 
especially when the several islets present varied 


groupings of palms and other foliage. To give 
perfection to the coral island landscape there 
ought to be, here and there, beneath the trees, a 
pretty cottage or villa, and other marks of taste 
and intelligence ; and now and then a barge should 
be seen gliding over the waters. As it is, the in- 
habitants are swarthy and nearly naked savages, 
having little about them that is pleasant to con- 
template ; and their canoes with a clumsy out- 
rigger to keep them right side uj), as well as their 
thatched huts, are as little in harmony as them- 
selves with nature's grace and loveliness. 

Where the islets of a coral reef are heaped up 
blocks of coral rock, blackened with lichens, and 
covered with barely enough of trailing plants and 
shrubs to make the surface green in the distant 
view, the traveller, on landing, would be greatly 
disappointed. But still there is enough that is 
strange and beautiful, both in the life of the land 
and sea, and in the liistory and features of the 
island, to give enjoyment for many a day. 

The great obstacle to communication with a 
majority of atolls, especially the .smaller, is the 
absence of an entrance to the lagoon, and hence 
of a good landing-place. In that case landing can 
be effected only on the leeward side, and in good 
weather ; and best, when the tide is low. Even 
then, the sea often rolls in, so heavily, over the 
jagged margin of the reef, that it is necessary for 
the boat to take a chance to mount an in-going 
wave, and ride upon it over the line of breakers, 
to a stopping-place somewhere on the reef or 
shore-platform. Less easy is the return througii 
the breakers, especially if the sea has risen during 
the ramble ashore. The boat, in order to get off 
again, would naturally take one of the narrow- 
channels or inlets indenting the margin of the 
reef. But, with the waves tumbling in one after 
another, rouglily lifting and dropping it, as they 
pass, and with barely room between the rocks for 
the oars to be used, there is a fair chance of its 
being dashed against the reefs to its destruction, or 
thrown broadside to the sea and swamped under 
a cataract of waters. — Coral and Coral Islands. 


DANA, Richard Henry, an American 
poet and prose- writer, boi'n at Cambridge, 
Mass., Nyvember 15, 1787, died there Febru- 
ary 2, 1879. He entered Harvard College in 
1808, "but did not complete the course. He 
then studied law, and was admitted to the 
Boston bar in 1811. Literature pleased him 
better than law. He joined the "Anthology 
Club," the members of which established the 
North American Review, and when, in 1818, 
Edward Tyrrell Channing became the editor 
of that publication, Dana was associated with 
him. His literary criticisms, dissenting in 
various instances from received opinion, ex- 
cited attention. _When Channing was made 
Boylston Profesil)r of Rhetoric and Oratory 
at Harvard, Dana withdrew from the Review, 
and in 1821, began the publication of The Idle 
Man, to which he contributed the tales en- 
titled Tom Tlwrnton, Edward and Mary, and 
Paid Fenton. Those who read and admired 
this publication formed too small a class to 
make it a financial success, and in 1822 it was 
discontinued. Dana's poems r/?e Dying 
Raven, and The Husband and Wifes Grave 
appeared in 1825, in The New Yo7'k Review, 
then edited by ilr. Bryant. The Buccaneer 
and other Poems, was published in 1827. In 
1833 Mr. Dana published a larger volume con- 
taining additional poems, and the papers 
from The Idle Man, and in 1850, Poems and 
Prose Writings in two volumes, which con- 
tain, besides the poems and articles already 
published, contributions to several periodi- 
cals. In 1839-40 Mr. Dana delivered a course 
of Lectures on Shakespeare. 


Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? 
And with that boding cry 
Along the waves dcst fly ? 


O I ralher. Bird, with nic 
Through the fair Jand rejoice ! 

Thy flitting' form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven hy a beatii^g .corm at sea ; 
Tliy cry is weak and scared, 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us : Tliy wail — 
What does it bring to me? 

Thou call'st along the sand, and liaunt'st tlie 
Itestless and sad ; as if, in strange acc-ord 
With tlie motion and the roai' 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery— The Word, f 

Of thousands, thou, botli sepulchre and pall, 
Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead, 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells — 
Tells of man's woe and fall, 
His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall bring 
Thy spirit never more. 
Come, quit with me the shore, 
For gladness and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 


HusDand and wife I No converse now ye hold, 

As once ye did in your young day of love. 

On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays, 

Its silent meditations, its glad hopes. 

Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; 

Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 

Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares 

Call you not now together. Earnest talk 

On what your children may be moves you not. 

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence. . . . 

Dread fellowship ! — together, yet alone. 

Is this th^' prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 


And (loth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no 

But self -inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The eternal Mind— the Father of all thought- 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? , , . . 
And do our loves all perish with our frames? 
Do those that took their root and put forth buds, 
And their soft leaves unfokU-d in the warmth 
Of mutual liearts. grow up and live in beauty. 
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers? 
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give 

And make it send forth winning liarmonies,* — 
That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 
With that for which there is no utterance- 
Are these the body's accidents?— no more?— 
To live in it. and when that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame? 

O, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it around our souls : according harps. 
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Tliick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
Tlie tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 

O, listen, ye, our spirits : drmk it in 
From all the air ! "Tis in the gentle moonlight : 
"Tis floating in day's setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears . 
Night, and the dawn, bright day. and thoughtful 

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic insti-ument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this gi'eat jubilee : 
The dying hear it : and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. . . . 


Why is it that I linger round this tomb ? 
What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I 

They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, 
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell 
In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love 
That bound thorn here, no longer needs a speech 
For full c:omnumion ; nor sensations strong, 
Witliin the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
To be set free, and meet tlieir kind in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that I'ise in each. 
By natures new, impart themselves though siient. 
Each quickening sense, each tlirob of holy love, 
AJfections sanctified, and the full glow 
Of being, which expand and gladden one, 
By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
In both immortal frames : — Sensation all, 
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and 

thought ! 
Ye paired, j'et one I wrapt in a consciousness 
T\\X)fold, yet single -this is love, this life ! 


The Island lies nine leagues away. 

Along its .solitary shore. 
Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
No sound but ocean's roar, 
Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her 

Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest, 

And on the glassy, heaving sea. 
The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
Sits swinging sHently ; 
How beautiful ! no rij)ples break the reach. 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 

The l)rook comes tinkling down its side ; 
From out the trees the sabbath bell 
Rings, cheerful, far and wide, 
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 


Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat 

In former dajs within the vale ; 
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; 
^Curses were on the gale ; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace, 

Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
A quiet look is in each face, 
Subdued and holy fear . 
Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done — 
Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. 
— Tlie Buccaneer. 

Who's sitting on that long, black ledge, 

Which makes so far out in the sea 
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge 't 
Poor, idle Mattliew Lee ! 
So weak and pale? A year and little more, 
And bravely did he lord it round this shore ! 

And on the shingles now he sits, 

And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; 
Now walks the beach ; then stops by fits. 
And scores the smooth, wet sands ; 
Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that 

The isle ; then home from many weary rounds. 

They ask him why he wanders so, 
From day to day, the uneven strand ? 
" I wish, I wish that I might go ! 
But I would go by land ; 
And there 's no way that I can find — I 've tried 
All day and night ! " — He seaward looked and 

It brought the tear to many an eye, 
That, once, his eye had made to quail. 
" Lee, go with us ; our sloop is nigh ; 
Come ! help us hoist the sail." 
He shook. — "'You know the spirit-horse I ride ! 
He '11 let me on the sea with none beside ! " 


He views the ships that come and go. 

Looking so like to living things. 
O I 'tis a proud and gallant show 
Of bright and l)road-spread wings. 
Making it light around them, as they keep 
Their course right onward through the unsounded 

And where the far-off sand-bars hit 

Tlieir backs in long and narrow line. 
The breakers slmut, and leap, and shift. 
And send the sparkling brine 
Into the air ; then rush to mimic strife : — 
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life ! — 

But not to Lee. He sits alone ; 

No fellowship nor joy for him. 
Borne down by woe, he makes no moan. 
Though tears will sometimes dim 
That asking eye. — O, how his worn thoughts 

crave — 
Not joy again, but rest within the grave. 

The rocks are dripping in the mist 
That lies so heavy off the shore ; 
Scarce seen the running breakers ; — list 
Their dull and smothered roar ! 
Lee hearkens to their voice. — "I hear, I hear 
You caU. — Not yet I — I know my time is near ! " 

And now the mist seems taking shape 

Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, — 
Enormous thing ! — There 's no escape : 
'Tis close upon the coast. 
Lee kneels, but cannot pray. — Why mock him so? 
The ship has cleared the fog. Lee, see her go I 

A sweet low voice, in starry nights. 
Chants to his ear a plaining song ; 
Its tones come winding up the heights, 
Telling of woe and wrong : 
And he must listen till the stars grow dim, 
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. 

O. it is sad that aught so mild 
Should bind the soul Avith bands of fear ; 


That strains to soothe a little child, 
The man should dread to hear ! 
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace — 

The harmonious cliords to which the angels sun; . 
— Hie Buccaneer. 

I look through teai"s on Beauty now ; 
And Beautys self less radiant looks on me : 
Serene, yet touched with sadness, is the brow — 
Once bright with joy — I see. 

Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad? 
Tell where th(^ radiance of the smile is gone. 
At which my heart antl earth and skies were glad. 
That linked us all in one. 

It is not on the mountain's breast : 
It comes not to me with the dawning day : 
Nor looks it from the glories of the west 
As slow they pass away. 

Nor on those gliding round lets bright, 
That steal their play among the woody shades. 
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light — 
The flowers along the glades. 

And altered to the living mind 
(The great high-priestess, with her thought-born 

Who round tliine altar aye have stood and shintd) 
The comforts of thy face ! 

Why shadowed thus thy forehead fan- ': 
Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom ? 
And spreads away ui)on the genial air. 
Like vapors from the tomb? 

Why should ye shine, you lights above ? 
Why, little flowers, open to the heat ? 
No more within the heart ye filled witla love 
The living pulses beat ! 

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand I 
The fine beholding eye, whose constant look 


Was turned on thee, is dark ; and cold the hand 
That gave all vision took. 

Nay, heart, be still !— Of heavenly birth 
Is Beauty sprung :— Look up I behold the place ! 
There he who reverent traced her steps on earth 
Now sees her face to face. 


Not only has the pjust this life-giving power, hj 
which, through the according action of heart and 
mind, the beuig grows up and expands with a just 
congruity throughout . it imparts stability to 
the character ; for the passed is tixed : to that is 
neither change, nor the shadow of turning. We 
may look back along tin- shores of that sea. and 
behold every cliff standing in its origmal. dark 
strength : we may hear the solemn moving of its 
waves, but no plunge of a heavy promontory, 
tumbling from its startles us : what hath 
been in the soul cannot cease to be. Every secret 
thought of all the races of men who have been, 
all forms of the creative mind, put forth in act, 
still live. Every emotion of the heart that beat 
away back in time may sleep, Init is not dead : it 
shall wake again. The liands that moulded the 
images first emtodied in the mind may be dust 
now ; the material forms of art may have fallen 
back into sliapeless earth again ; castle and fane, 
pyramid and column, may have come down : but 
the forms in the mind, of which these were but 
the outward show, still stand there perfect. True, 
a veil may hang before tlieui for awhile : but 
when the angel, that standeth upon the sea and 
upon the earth, shall utter the voice, "Time shall 
be no longer." that veil shall be rent from the top 
to the bottom. O, it seems to me that I can look even 
now into this temple and its chambers of glorified 
imagery, and behold these spirits of the past in all 
their aspects— of mysterious thought, subduing 
love, passionate endeavor, and lofty aim, and 
forms beautiful as the angels and noble as the 
gods ! How populous is the past ! Yes, not a 
passion, not a thought, not an image of the minds 


that have been, has perished : the spiritual cannot 
die. What mean we by that we call death ? It is 
but the seal of eternity. . . . 

It is not in connection witli the eternal alone, 
that the past awakens reverence in us. So long as 
we suffer our minds to have their natural play, 
that wliich existed long before we came into being 
will call out something of filial respect ; the Past 
will be reverenced as our great ancestor. Nor is 
this an uimieaning emotion. For whatever has 
been touches on whatever is ; the Present would 
not be as it is, had the Past been different from 
what it wius. As the peculiar gestures of the 
father are acted over again in the child, and as on 
the lip of the little one is still playing the mother's 
own smile, tiiough she herself be gone, so the Past, 
by wonderful communication, infuses something 
of its own character into whatever follows it. He 
who has no reverence for the Past is an unnatural 
son, mocking at age, and forswearing his own 
father. And should this reverential feelmg die 
out, and the cliildren of this or the coming time 
make light of it, we may depend upon it, in its 
stead, passions will break into their social state, 
which shall rend them like the •' two she-bears out 
of the wood." .... 

We shall stand in a true relation to the Present 
and the Future, by standing in a right relation to 
the Past. For he who has been back into the 
Past comes down again into the Present, and pre- 
l>ared to travel on into the Future, laden with the 
experiences of ages gone, and made wise by the 
observation of principles in their beginnings, their 
workings, and their remote results. He is able t-o 
iiring into contact early causes, and their distant 
effects, and. tracing the former through their in- 
tricate windings down to the latter, to learn how 
it was that purposes so often produced their con- 
traries : hope despair, and despair hope. He has 
leai-ned this truth for the consolation and strength- 
en ing of his soul, that, sooner or later, evil recoils 
upon itself, and that, if indirectness and wrong be 
not visited upon the father, it will be upon the 


children ; and through his wide view, he is en- 
abled to see how 

" from good still good proceeds, 
Direct or by occasion ; "-- 
a truth, stale indee<l. to the apprehension, but real- 
ized and let into the life of only a few hearts. He 
has found out just how short-lived and little 
worth are expedients and contrivings. and that, 
in the main, even temporary and particular aims 
are best reached through permanent and general 
principles ; he has, in line, bten let into the true 
meaning of tliat '• great word,'' as it has been well 
termed.—" Simplicity.'"— 27iC Past aw} tlic Present. 


The change went on so gradually ana secretly, 
that it was a long time before lie was conscious 
that any was taking place. After breakfast he 
loitered in the parlor, and his evening passed away 
in quiet conversation with Esther. The beautiful 
blending of the thoughtful and gay in her manner 
and remarks played on him like sun and shade on 
the earth, beneath a tree ; and tranquillizing and 
gentle emotions were stealing into him unawares. 

Nor was it he alone whose heart was touched. 
Pavd was not a man whom a woman could be long 
with and remain indifferent to. The strength of 
passion and intellect so distinctly marked in his 
features, in the movements of the face and in his 
gestures — the deep, rich, mellow tone of his voice, 
with a certain mysterious seriousness over the 
whole — excited a restless curiosity to get more 
into his character ; and a woman who is at the 
trouble of prying into the constitution of a man's 
heart and mind is in great danger of falling in love 
with him for her pains. Esther did not make this 
reflection when she began ; and so taken up was 
she in the pursuit, that she never once thought 
what it might end in, nor of turning back. 

Paul was differently educated from the run of 
men : his father disliked the modern system, and 
so Paul's mind was no encyclopaedia, nor Ijook of 
general reference. He read not over-variously, 
but with much care ; and his reading lay back 


among original thinkers, and tliose who were 
almost supernaturally versed in the mysteries of 
tlie heart of man. Their clear and direct manner 
of uttering their thoughts had given a distinctness 
to his opinions, and a plain way of expressing 
them ; and what he had to say savored of individ- 
uality antl reflection. He was a man precisely 
calculated to interest a woman of feeling and good 
sense, who had grown tired of the elegant and in- 
definite. He iK^er thought of the material world 
as formed on purpose to be put into a crucible : 
nor did he analyze ami talk upon it, as if he knew 
quite as much about it as He who made it. To 
him it was a grand and beautiful mystery— in his 
better moments, a holy one. It was power, and 
intellect, and love, made visible, calling out the 
sympathies of his being, and causing him to feel 
tiie living Presence throughout the whole. Material 
became intellectual beauty with him ; he was as a 
part of the great universe, and all he looked upon 
or thought on. was in some way connected with 
his own mind and heart. The conversation of 
such a man (begin where it might), always tend- 
ing homeward to the bosom, was not likely to 
pass from a woman like Esther, without leaving 
some thoughts which would be dear to her to 
mingle with her own. or without raising emotions 
which she would love to cherish. 

Two minds of a musing cast will have some 
valued feelings and sentiments, which will soon 
make an inter-growth and become bound together. 
Where this happens in reserved minds, it goes on 
secretly and spreads so widely before it is found 
out, that, when at last one thought or passion is 
touched by some little circumstance or word, or 
look, a sympathizing feeling runs through the 
whole ; and they who had not before intimated or 
so much as known that they loved, find them- 
selves in full and familiar xmion, with one heart 
and one being. — Paul Felton. 

DANA, Richard Henry, Jr., an American 
lawyer and author, born at Cambridge, Mass., 
in 1815, died in 1882. Compelled by an affec- 


tion of the eyes to suspend his collegiate 
course at Harvard, he shipped in 1834 as a 
sailor, on a voyage to California. Of this 
voyage ho gave an account in Two Years he- 
fore the Mast, published in 1837. In that 
year he completed his course at Harvard ; be- 
gan the study of law, was admitted to the 
bar in 1840, and soon entered upon successful 
practice. In 1861 he was appointed United 
States Attorney for Massachusettc, and in 
conjunction with Mr. Evarts he argued the 
prize cases befor<' the Supreme Court in re- 
gard to the belligerent powers of Government 
in time of rebellion. He was one of the 
United States Counsel for the Trial of Jeffer- 
son Davis for treason, and in 1867-8 was a 
member of the Legislature of Massachusetts. 
Besides the popular Two Years before the 
Mast, he published in 1841 The Seaman's 
Friend, and in 1859, To Cuba and Back. He 
also contributed articles to the North Ameri- 
can Remew, and to legal periodicals. 


At twelve o'clock we went below, and had just 
got through dinner, when the cook put his head 
down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and 
see the finest sight that we had ever seen. '• Where 
away, Doctor V " asked the first man who was up. 
" On the larboard bow." And there lay, floating 
in the ocean, several miles otf . an immense, irreg- 
ular mass, its top and points covered with snow, 
and its centre of a deep indigo color. This was 
an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our 
men said, who had been in the Northern Ocean. 
As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every di- 
rection was of a deep blue color, the waves run- 
ning high and fresh, and sparkhng in the light, 
and in the midst lay this immense mountain- 
island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep 
shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in 
the sun. All hands were soon on deck, looking at 


it, and admiring in -various ways its beauty and 
grandeur. But no description can give any idea 
of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sub- 
limity, of tlie sight. Its great size — for it must 
have been from two to three miles in circumfer- 
ence, and several hundred feet in height — its slow 
motion, as its base rose and sank in the water, and 
its high points nodded against the clouds ; the 
dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking 
high with foam, lined its base with a white crust ; 
and the thundering sound of tlie cracking of the 
mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of 
huge pieces ; together with its nearness and ap- 
proach, which added a slight element of fear— all 
combined to give to it the character of true sub- 
limity. The main body of tlie mass, was, as I 
liave said, of an indigo color, its base crusted witJi 
frozen foam ; and as it grew thin and transparent 
toward the edges and top, its color shaded off 
from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. 

It seemed to be drifting slowly toward the 
north, so that we kept away and avoided it. It 
was in sight all the afternoon ; and when we got 
to leeward of it the wind died awaj'. so that we 
lay-to quite near it for a greater part of the night. 
Unfortunately there was no moon, but it was a 
clear night, and we could plainly mark the long 
regulai- heaving of the stupendous mass, as its 
edges moved slowly against the stars, now reveal- 
ing them, and now shutting them in. Several 
times in our watch loud cracks were heard, which 
sounded as though they must have run tlirough 
the whole length of the iceberg, and several pieces 
fell down with a thundering crash, plunging 
heavily into the sea. Toward morning a strong 
breeze sprang up, and we filled away, and left it 
astern, and at day -light it was out of sight. — Two 
Years before the Mast. 


After about eight days of constant easterly 
gales, the wind hauled occasionally a little to the 
southward, and blew hard, whicli. as we were 
well to the southward, allowed us to brace in a 


little. aiKl stand on under all sail we could carry. 
These turns lasted but a short while, and sooner 
or later it set in again from the old (juarter ; yet 
at each time we made something, and were grad- 
ually edging along to the eastward. One night, 
after one of tliese shifts of the wind, and when all 
hands had been up a great part of the time, our 
watcli was left on deck, with the mainsail hang- 
ing in the Inintlines, ready to be set if necessary. It 
came on to blow worse and worse, with hail and 
snow beating like so many fm'ies upon the ship, 
it being dark and thick as night could make it. 
The mainsail was blowing and slatting with a 
noise like thunder, when the captain came on 
deck and ordered it to be furled. The mate was 
about to call all hands, when the captain stopped 
bun, and said that the men would be beaten outif 
they were called up so often ; that, as our watch 
must stay on deck, it might as well be doing that 
as anything else. Accordingly, we went out upon 
the yard ; and never shall I forget that piece of 

Our watch had been so reduced by sickness, and 
by some having been left in California, that, with 
one man at the wheel, we had only the third-mate 
and three beside myself to go aloft, so that at 
most we could only attempt to furl one yard-arm 
at a time. We manned the weather-yard-arm, 
and set to work to make a furl of it. Our lower 
masts being short, and our yards very square, the 
sail had a head of nearly fifty feet, and a short 
leech, made still shorter by the deep reef which 
was in it, whicli brought the clew away out on the 
quarters of the yard, and made a bunt nearly as 
square as the mizzen royal yard. Besides this dif- 
ficulty, the yard over which we lay was cased 
witli ice, the gaskets and rope of the foot and leech 
of the sail as stiff and hard as a piece of leather 
hose, and the sail itself about as pliable as though 
it had been made of sheathing copper. 

It blew a perfect hurricane, with alternate blasts 
of snow, hail, and rain. We had to fist the sail 
with bare hands. No one could trust himself to 
mittens, for if he slipi>ed he was a gone man. All 


the boats were hoisted in on deck, and there was 
nothing to be lowei-ed for him. We had need of 
every finger God liad given us. Several times we 
got the sail upon the yard, but it blew away again 
before we could secure it. It required men to lie 
over the yard to pass each turn of the gaskets, and 
when they were ])assed it was almost iinpo.ssible to 
knot them so that they would hold. Frecjuently 
we were obliged to leave off altogetlier and take 
to beating our hands upon the sail to keep them 
from freezing. 

After some time — which seemed forever — we 
got the weather side stowed after a fashion , and 
went over to leeward for another trial. This was 
still worse, for the body of the sail had been blown 
over to leeward, and, as the yard was a-cock-bill 
by the lying over of the vessel, we had to Light it 
all up to windward. When the yard-arms were 
furled, the bunt was all adrift again, which made 
more work for us. W^e got all secure at last, but 
we had been nearly an hour and a half upon the 
yard, and it seemed an age. 

It had just struek live bells when we went up. 
and eight were struck soon after we came down. 
This may seem slow work ; but considei'ing the 
state of everytliing. and that we had only five men 
to a sail with just half as many square yards of 
canvas in it as the mainsail of the Independence, 
sixty -gun ship, which musters seven hundred men 
at her quarters, it is not wonderful that we were 
no quicker about it. We were glad enough to get 
on deck, and still more to go below. " The oldest 
sailor in the watch said, as lie went down, "I 
shall never forget that main-yard ; it beats all my 
going a-fishing. Fun is fun. but furling one yard- 
arm of a course at a time off Cape Horn, is no 
better than man-killing." — Two Years before the 


Notwithstanding all that has been said about the 

beauty of a ship under full sail, there are very few 

who have ever seen a ship, literally, under all her 

sail. A ship coming in or going out of port, with 


her ordinary sails, and perhaps two or three stud- 
ding-sails, is commonly said to be under full sail; 
but a ship never has all her sail upon her, except 
when she has a light, steady breeze, very nearly, 
but not quite, dead aft, and so regular that it can 
be trusted, and is likely to last for some time. 
Then, with all her sails, light and heavy, and 
studding-sails, on each side, alow and aloft, she is 
the most glorious moving object in the world. 
Such a sight very few, even some who have been 
at sea a good deal, have ever beheld ; for from the 
deck of your own vessel you cannot see her, as 
you would a separate object. 

One night, while we were in the tropics, I went 
out to the end of the flying-jib-boom upon some 
duty, and, having finished it, turned round, and 
lay over the boom for a long time, admiring the 
beauty of the sight before me. Being so far out 
from the deck, I could look at the ship as at a sep- 
arate vessel ; and there rose up from the water, 
supported only bj' the small black hull, a pyramid 
of canvas, spreading out far beyond the hull, and 
towering up almost, as it seemed in the indistinct 
night air. to the clouds. The sea was as still as an 
inland lake ; the light trade wind was gently and 
steadily breathing from astern : the dark blue sky 
was studded with the tropical stars ; there was no 
sound but the rippling of the water under the 
stem ; and the sails were spread out, wide and 
high — the two lower studding-sails stretching on 
each side far beyond the deck ; the topmast 
studding-sails like wings to the topsails ; the top- 
gallant studding-sails spreading fearlessly out 
above them ; still higher, the two royal studding- 
sails, looking like two kites flying from the same 
string ; and. highest of all, the little skysail, the 
apex of the pyramid, seeming actually to touch 
the stars, and to be out of reach of human hand. 
So quiet, too, was the sea, and so steady the 
breeze, that if these sails had been scul])tiu-ed mar- 
ble they could not have been more motionless. 
Not a ripple upon the surface of the canvas ; not 
even a quivering of the extreme edges of the sail, 
so perfectly were the}' distended by the breeze. I 


was so lost in the sight tliat I forgot the presence 
of the man who came out witli me, until he said 
(for he, too, rough old man-of-wars-man as he 
was, had l)een gazing at the show), half to him- 
self, still looking at the marble sails, — " How 
quietly they do their work ! " — Two Years before 
the Mast. 


These strange palm-trees everywhere ! I can- 
not yet feel at home among them. Many of the 
•other trees are like our own, and though tropical 
in fact, look to the eye as if thej' might grow as 
well in New England as here. But the royal palm 
looks so intensely and exclusively tropical ! It 
cannot grow beyond this narrow belt of the earth's 
surface. Its long, thin body, so straight and so 
smooth, swathed from the foot in a tiglit bandage 
of gray canvas, leaving only its deep-green neck, 
and over that its crest and plumage of deep-green 
leaves ! It gives no shade, and bears no fruit 
that is valued by men. And it has no beauty to 
atone for those wants. Yet it has more than 
beauty — a strange fascination over the eye and 
the fancy, that will never allow it to be overlooked 
or forgotten. The palm tree seems a kind of 
lusiis naturae to the northei^n eye — an exotic 
wherever you meet it. It seems to be conscious of 
its want of usefulness for food or shade, yet has a 
dignity of its own. a pride of unmixed blood and 
royal descent — the hidalgo of the soil. — To Cuba 
and Back. 

DANIEL, Saimuel, an English poet and his- 
torian, born in 1562, died in 1619. He was 
the son of a music- master; studied for three 
years at Magdalen College, Oxford, but left 
without taking his degree, havmg been ap- 
pointed tutor to the daughter of the Earl of 
Cumberland. After the death of Edmund 
Spenser, he became laureate to Queen Eliza- 
beth. In the reign of James I. he was ap- 
pointed Master oi the Queen's Revels, and 
Groom of -the-Chamber to her Majesty. His 


principal works are The Historic of the Civile 
Warres beticeene the Houses of York and 
Lancaster, a poem in eight books, and a His- 
tory of Etujlaml from the Norman conquest 
down to the close of the reign of Edward III. 
He also wrote numerous dramatic pieces, 
short poems, and several treatises in prose. 
Daniel was a very popidar poet in his day, 
and in later times haa been highly lauded by 
Lamb, Coleridge, and Southey. 


The morning of that day which was his last. 
After a weary rest, rising to pain, 

Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 

Upon those bordering liills and open plain, 
Wliere otliers' hlx'rty make liini complain 

The more liis own. and grieves liissoul the more, 

Conferring captive crowns witli freedom poor. 

" O happy man," saith he. " that lo I see, 
Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields, 

If he but knew li is good. How blessed he 
Tliat feels not wliat affliction greatness yields ! 

Other than what he is lie would not be. 

Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields 

Thine, thine is that true life : that is to live, 

To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 

"Thou sittest at home safe by tliy (piiet fire, 
And hearest of others' harms, but fearest none : 

And there thou tellest of kings, and who aspire. 
Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. 

Perhaps thou talkest of me, and dost intjuire 
Of luy restraint, why here I live alone, 

And pitiest this my miserable fall ; 

For pity must have part — envy not all. 

" Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, 
And have no venture in the wreck you see ; 

No mterest, no occasion to deplore 
Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. 

How much doth your sweet rest make us the more 
To see our miserv, and what we be : 


Wliose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, 
Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil." 


Care-charnior Sleep, son of tlic sahle Night, 

Brotlier to Death, in silent darkness born, 
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light ; 

With dark forgetting of my care, return, 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 

The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth ; 

Let waking ej^es suffice to wail their scorn. 
Without the torments of the night's untruth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model fortii the passions of to-morrow ; 

Never let the rising sun prove you liars. 
To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in viiin, 

And never wake to feel the day's disdain, 


He that of such a height hath built his mind, 
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither hope nor fear can shake the frame 
Of his resolved powers : nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same : 
What a fair seat hath he. from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil I 
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
On flesh and blood : where honor, power, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds who do it so esteem. 


Nor is he moved by all the thunder-cracks 
Of tjTants" threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes — 
Charged with more crying sins than those he 


The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coining times, 
Appal him not that hath no side at all. 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall, 


And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed ; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack m ■ 
And builds on blood, and rises by di-stress; 
And the inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes— he looks thereon 
Ar- from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 


Thus, madam, fares that man that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learned this book of man. 
Full of the notes of frailty, and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings : 
By whom. I see. you labor all you can 
To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 


And whereas none rejoice more in revenge 
Than women use to do. yet well you know 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned 
Than being pursued : leaving to Him to avenge 
To whom it appertains : Wherein you show 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base malediction, living in the dark. 
That at the rays of goodness still will bark : — 


Knowing the heart of man is set to be 

The centre of this world, about the which 

These revolutions of disturbances 

Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 

Predominate : whose strong effects are such 

As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 

And that unless himself he can 

Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 


This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind 
Hath been so set by that all-working Jiand 


Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his 

To put it out by discords most unkind — 
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man ; nor ever will be forced 
from that most sweet accord ; but still agree, 
Equal in fortune's inequality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Remains recorded in so many hearts. 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right 
In the inheritance of fame you must possess : 
You that have built you by your great deserts — 
Out of small means — a far more exipiisite 
And glorious dwelling for yom* honored name, 
Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. 


Undertaking to collect the principal affairs of 
this kingdom, I had a desire to have deduced the 
same from the beginning of the first British kings, 
as they are registered in their catalogue : but 
tinding no authentical warrant how they came 
there, I did put olf that desire with these consider- 
ations : That a lesser part of time, and better 
known — which was from William I. .surnamed 
the Bastard — was more than enough for my 
ability : and how it was but our curiosity to search 
further back into times past than we might dis- 
cern, and whereof we could neither have proof 
nor profit ; how the beginnings of all people and 
states were as uncertain as the heads of great 
rivers, and could not add to our virtue, and per- 
adventure little to our reputation, to know them, 
considering how commonly they rise from the 
springs of poverty, piracy, robbery, and violence ; 
howsoever fabulous writers, to glorify their 
nations, strive to abuse the credulit}' of after-ages 
with heroical or miraculous beginnings. For 
states, as men, are ever best seen when they are 
up, and as they are. not as they were. Besides, it 
seems. God, in His providence, to check our pre- 
sumptiioiis inquisition, wraps up all things in un- 
certainty, bars us out from long antiquity, and 

42 DANTE. 

bounds our searches within the compass of a few 
ages, as if the same were sufficient, both for ex- 
ample and instruction, to the government of men. 
For had we tlie particular occurrents of all ages 
and all nations, it might more stuff, but not better 
our understanding ; we shall find still the same 
correspondences to hold in the actions of men ; 
virtues and vices the same, though rising and fall- 
ing, according to the worth or weakness of gov- 
ernors ; the causes of the ruins and mutations of 
states to be alike, and the train of affairs carried 
by precedent, in a course of succession, under like 
coloi-s. — Histot'^y of Eyigland. 

DANTE (Durante Alighieri), an Italian 
poet, born at Florouce in 12G.5, died at Ra- 
venna in 1321. The name Dante, by which he 
is universally designated, is a contraction of 
his baptismal name "Durante." The family 
Alighieri belonged to the nobles, but not to 
the highest rank in Florence. Dante was 
but a child when his father died. Of the 
manner of his education little positive is 
known. Biographers say that at one time 
or another he studied in the Universities 
of Bologna, Padua, Naples, and even at Paris 
and Oxford. But wherever he was educated, 
it is clear that while a youth he had mastered 
most of the learning of his time. Latin was 
of course almost vernacular to him ; of 
Greek he knew something ; and he had ap- 
parently learned a few words of Hebrew and 
Arabic. As early as the close of his ninth 
year an incident occurred which had much to 
do in shaping all his future life. In that year 
he for the first time saw Beatrice Portinari, 
a girl of noble family, some months younger 
than himself. In his Vita Nuova he thus 
describes his first sight of this fair child : 


In that part of the book of my memory, before 
which little can be read, is found a rubric, which 

DANTE. 43 

sayeth : Ineipit Vita Nora : under which rubric I 
find the words written, which it is ray intejition 
to copy into this little book; and if not all of them, 
at least their meaning. 

Nine times now, since my birth, had the heaven 
of light turned almost to the same jioint in its 
own gyration, when first appeared before mine 
eyes the glorious Lady of my mind, who was 
called Beatrice ['"the Blessed"] by many who 
knew not wherefore she was so called. She had 
already been in this life so long that in its course 
the starred heaven had moved toward the region 
of the East one of the twelve parts of a degree ; so 
that at about the Ijeginning of her ninth year she 
appeared to me, and I near the end of my ninth 
year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in a 
most noble color — a modest and becoming crim- 
son, garlanded and adorned in suchwise as befit- 
ted her very youthful age. At that instant. I may 
truly say that the spirit of life which dwelleth in 
the most secret chamber of the heart began to 
tremble with such violence that it appeared fear- 
fully in the least pulses, and trembling said these 
words: Ecce cleiis fortior me, qui veniens douiini- 
bitur mihi. 

At that instant the intellectual spirit, which 
dwelleth in the higher chamber to which all the 
spirits of the senses carry their perceptions, began 
to marvel greatly, and. speaking especially to the 
spirit of the sight, said therie words : Apparuit 
jam beatitiido vestra. At that instant the natural 
spirit, which dwelleth in that part where our nour- 
ishment is supplied, began to weep, and weeping 
said these words : Heu miser ! quia frequenter 
impeditus ero deinceps. 

From that time forward I say that Love lorded 
it over my soul which had so suddenly inclined to 
him ; and he began to exercise over me such con- 
trol and such lordship, through the power which 
my imagination gave to him, that it behooved me 
to do completely all his pleasure. He commanded 
me ofttimes that I should seek to see this youthful 
angel, so that I in my boyhood often went seeking 
her, and saw her of such noble and praiseworthy 

44 DANTE. 

deportmen*, «iat truly of lier might be said that 
word of the poet Homer. " Slie seemeth not the 
daughter of mortal man, but of (Jod." And albeit 
ker miage, which staye<i constantly with me, gave 
boldness to Love to hold lordship over me. yet 
it was of such noble a irtue that it never sutTeied 
that Love sliuuld rule me without the fmthful 
counsel of the Reason in those matters in which it 
were useful to hear such counsel. And since to 
dwell upon the passions and actions of such early 
youth appeareth like telling an idle tale, I will 
leave them, and. pa.ssing over many things which 
might be ilrawn from tlie original where lie 
hiddiji, I will come to those words which are writ- 
ten in my memory under larger paragraphs.— Fi7a 
Niiuva, I., II.— Traml. of Charles Eliot Norton. 

Dante, however, seems to have scarcely 
known Beatrice a.s slie grew up into woman- 
hood. When about twenty years of age she 
was married to Simone de' Bardi ; and died in 
1290 at the age of twenty-five. At about this 
time, or perhaps a little earlier, Dante wrote 
the first portion of the Vita Nuova, which was 
not completed until some years later. In this 
work he narrates, partly in prose and partly 
in verse, the story of his passion for Beatrice. 


When so many days had passed that it was ex- 
actly nine years since the above-described appari- 
tion of this most gentle lady, on the last of these 
days it came to pass that this most admirable lady 
appeared before me clothed in purest white, be- 
tween two gentle ladies who were of greater age. 
and passing along a street, turned her eyes to- 
ward that place where I stood very timidly ; and 
by her ineffable courtesy, which is now rewarded 
in the eternal world, saluted me with such virtue 
that it seemed to me then that I beheld all the 
bounds of bliss. The hour when her most sweet 
salutation reached me was exactly the ninth of 
that day ; and since it was the first time that her 

DANTE. 45 

words came to mine ears. I took in such sweet- 
ness, that, as were intoxicated. I turned away 
from tlie crowd : and. lietaking myself to the sol- 
itude of mine own chamber. I sat myself down to 
think of this most courteous lady. And thinking 
of her. a sweet slumber overcame me. in which a 
marvelous vision appeared to me. . . . Thinking 
on what had appeared to me. I resolved to make 
it known to many who were famous poets at that 
time ; and since I had already seen in myself the 
art of discoursing in rhyme. I resolved to make a 
sonnet, in which I would salute all the liegemen 
of Love, and praying them to give an interpreta- 
tion of my vision, would write to them that wliiili 
I had seen in my slumber. And I began then this 
sonnet : 

To every captive soul and gentle heart 

Before whose sight may come the present word. 
That they thereof to me their thoughts imparl, 

Be greeting in Love's name, who is their Lord. 
Now of these hours' well-nigh one-third is gone 

What time doth every star appear most bright, 
When on a sudden Love before me shone. 

Remembrance of whose nature gives me fright. 
Joyful to me seemed Love, and he was keeping 

My heart within his hands, while on his arm 
He held my Lady, covered o'er and sleeping. 

Then waking her, he with his flaming heart 

Did humbly feed her, fearful of some harm. 

Thereon I saw him thence in tears depart. 
—Vita Nuova 111.— Transl. of Norton. 


This most gentle lady, of whom there hath been 
discourse m the preceding words, came into such 
favor among the people, that, when she passed 
along the way, persons ran to see her, which gave 
me wonderful delight. And when she was near 
anyone, such modesty came into his heart that he 
dared not raise his eyes, or return her salutation. 
She, crowned and clothed with humility, took her 
way. displaying no pride in that which she saw 
and heard. Many said, when she had passed. 

46 DANTE. 

" This is not a woman ; rather she is one of the 
most beautiful angels of heaven." And others 
said, " She is a marvel. Blessed be the Lord who 
can -work thus admirably !".... These and 
more admirable things proceeded from her ad- 
mirably and with power. Wherefore I, thinking 
upon this, desiring to resume the style of her 
praise, resolved to say wonls in which I would set 
fortli lier admirable and excellent intiuences, to 
the enil that not only those who might actually l)e- 
hol<l her, but also others, might know of her 
whatever words could tell. Tlien I devised this 
sonnet : 

So gentle and so modest doth appear 
My lady when she giveth lier salute, 
Tliat every tongue becometh, trembling, mute ; 

Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare. 

Although she hears her praises, she doth go 
Benignly vested with humility ; 
And like a iliing come down, she seems to be, 

From heaven to earth, a miracle to show. 

So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh, 
She gives the heart a sweetness through the 

Which none can understand who does not prove ; 

And from her countenance there seems to move 
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise. 

Who to the soul is ever saying. Sigh ! 

—Vita Nuova, XXyi.—Transl of Norton. 


I say that, according to the mode of reckoning 
in Italy, her most noble soul departed in the first 
hour of the ninth day of the month ; and accord- 
ing to the reckoning in Syria, she departed in the 
ninth month of the year ; since the :first month 
there is Tismiii, which with us is October. And 
according to our reckoning she departed in that 
year of our indiction — that is, of the years of the 
Lord — in which the perfect number was com- 
pleted for the ninth time in the century in which 
she had been set in this world; and she was of the 
Christians of the thirteenth centuiy. 

DANTE. 47 

One reason why this number was so friendly to 
her may be this : Since, according to Ptolemy, and 
according to the Christian truth, there are nine 
heavens wliich move ; and, according to the com- 
mon astrological opinion, the said heavens work 
effects here below according to their conjunctions, 
this number was. lior frien<l. to the end that it 
might be understood that at her generation all the 
nine movable heavens were in most perfect con- 

This is one reason thereof ; but considering 
more subtilely, and according to the infallible 
truth, this number was she lierself ; I mean by 
similitude, and I intend it thils : The ijumber 
tlu-ee is the root of nine, for, without any other 
number, nudtiplied by itself, it maketh nine, as 
we see plainly that three times three make nine. 
Therefore, since there is the factor by itself of 
nine, and the Author of the miracles by himself is 
three, namely Father, Son. and Holy Spirit — who 
are Three and One — this lady was accompanied 
by the numlwr nine : that is a miracle whose only 
root is the marvelous Trinity. Perhaps a more 
subtile reason might be seen therein by a more 
subtile person : but this is that which I see for it. 
and which best pleaseth me. — Vita Nuova. XX X . 
^Transl. of Norton. 


After this sonnet, beginning— 

Beyond this sphere that widest orbit hath. 

Passeth the sigli that issues from my heart ; 

A new intelligence doth Love impart 
In tears to him which leads him on his path— 

a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I 
saw things which made me resolve to speak no 
more of this blessed one. until I could more worth- 
ily treat of lier. And to attain to this I study to 
the utmost of my power, as slie truly knoweth. So 
that, if it sliall please Him tlirough whom all things 
live, that my life shall be prolonged for some 
vears, I hope to say of her what was never said of 
any woman. And tlien may it please Him who is 
the Lord of Grace, that my soul may go to behold 

48 DANTE. 

the glory of its Lady— namely of that blessed Bea- 
trice, who in glory looketh upon the face of Him 
qui est per omnia scecula benedictus, — Vita 
Nuova XLUl.—Transl. of Norton. 

In another work, the Conmto (" Banquet "), 
Dante tells how he sought consolation after 
the death of Beatrice. " My mind." he says, 
" desirous of health, sought to return to the 
method by which other disconsolate ones had 
found consolation, and I set myself to read 
that little known bo :k of Boetius, in which 
he consoled himself, when a prisoner and in 
exile. And hearing that Tully had written 
another work, in which he had given words 
of consolation to Laelius, I set myself 
to read that also." — By such means, and 
others, Dante found consolation after the death 
of the almost unknown Beatrice. Not much 
more than a year afterwards he married 
Gemma dei Donati. a noble lady of Florence, 
who during the next eight or ten years bore to 
him seven children. In nor.j of the works of 
Dante is to be found any mention of his wife, 
from which it has been inferred that his 
marriage was an unhappy one; but of this 
there is no direct evidence. 

To narrate the public hfe of Dante would 
be to give a history of the troublous times in 
which he lived. All Northern Italy, Florence 
in particular, was convulsed by the sti'uggles 
of two rival parties known as the Guelphs 
and the Ghibelines, each of which was from 
time to time spht up into smaller factions, 
sometimes one and sometimes the other getting 
control of the governmeul in Florence. At 
length, in 1302 the party to which Dante was 
then attached was overthrown. Dante, who 
had been sent on an embassy to the Papal 
court at Rome, was, with some others, con- 
demned to perpetual exile, and to the pay- 
ment of a he^vy fine, the offense charged 

DANTE. ^ 49 

against him being that of oflBcial malversa- 
tion. Dante never again saw his native 
Florence. - Fourteen years after, in 1316, the 
existing government of the city issued a de- 
cree permitting the exiles to return upon con- 
dition of paying their fines, and submitting 
to humiliating public penance : thus acknowl- 
edging theniselves guilty of the crimes with 
which they had been charged. Dante reject- 
ed this proffer with indignant scorn. To a 
friend he wrote : 


Is this tlien, the glorious return of Dante Ali- 
ghieri to liis country after nearly fifteen years of 
suffering exile 'i Did an innocence patent to all 
merit this 'i This the perpetual sweat and toil of 
study y Far from a man the housemate of philos- 
ophy be so rash and earthen-hearted a humility 
as to allow himself to be offered up bound like a 
schoolboy or a criminal I Far from a man the 
preacher of justice, to pay those who have done 
him wrong as for a favor ! This is not the way of 
returning to my country ; but if another can be 
found that shall not derogate from the fame and 
honor of Dante, that I will enter on with no lag- 
ging steps. But, if by none such Florence may be 
entered, by me, then, never ! Can I not every- 
where behold the sun and stars ? Speculate on 
sweetest truths under any sky, M-ithout giving 
myself up inglorious, nay, ignominious, to the 
populace and city of Florence ? Nor shall I want 
for bread. 

Dante lived nineteen years after his exile 
from Florence. The accounts of his where- 
abouts for the greater part of the time are 
vague and often improbable. There are stories, 
that he went to Paris, visited the university ; 
resided for a while in the Low Counti'ies, and 
even crossed the Channel to England, and 
spent some time at Oxford. But it is certain 
that the greater portion of these years was 

50 DANTE. 

passed in Northern Italy. In some districts 
there is scarcely a village which does not 
claim the honor of having been the place of 
his temporaiy sojourn. At times he appears 
to have been in a condition of extreme desti- 
tution, at times he was under the protection 
of one noble or another. He himself com- 
plains how bitter he found it to "clhnb the 
stairs of anothei". " About two years before 
his death we find him living at Ravenna un- 
der the protection of Guido da Polenta, by 
whom he Avas sent on an embassy to the 
Venetians. He did not succeed in accomplish- 
ing the object of this mission, and returned 
to Ravenna, bearing the seeds of a fatal fever 
contracted in the miasmatic lagoons. 

He was bvu-ied under a humble monument 
erected by his friend Guido Novello. A more 
imposing tomb was built for him in 1483, 
which was restored in 1692, and finally re- 
built, as it now stands, in 1780. In 1865 Ra- 
venna, Avith other cities of Italy, celebrated 
the six-hundredth anniversary of the birth of 
Dante. In making preparations for the cele- 
bration, a chest containing human bones was 
found in a cavity near the tomb. A com- 
mission appointed for the purpose decided 
that these were the remains of Dante, which 
had been hidden in the seventeenth century 
under an apprehension that they might be 
stolen by the Florentines, who had often 
begged that they should be given back to his 
native city. The bones were re-interred in 
the tomb, where they now rest. 

Besides the Vita Nuova and the Convito, 
already mentioned, andihe Divinu Commedia, 
which remains to be considered, Dante Avrote 
several minor Avorks in Italian and Latin, in 
verse and prose. The most important of 
these is the Latin treatise De Monorchia, 
written, probably, betAveen 1310 and 1313. 

DANTE. 51 

The special aim of this treatise is to show 
that to tlie Roman Empire belongs the supre- 
macy of the world, which was given to it di- 
rectly by God ; and that Avhile the Pope is 
supreme in things spiritiial, the Emperor is 
supreme in things temporal. His argument, 
here greatly condensed, runs thus : 

Christ consented to be born under the reign of 
Augustus ; and he assented to the jurisdiction of 
the Eini)ire by suffering himself to be crucified 
undtT a decree of one of its courts. The atone- 
ment could not have been accomplished unless 
Christ sulfered under sentence of a tribunal hav- 
ing rightful jurisdiction ; for otherwise his con- 
demnation would have been an act of usurpation, 
and n^)t the infliction of a legal penalty. More- 
over, since all mankind were represented in the 
person of Christ, the Court must have been one 
having rightful jurisdiction over all the human 
family ; and since he was delivered up to Pilate — 
an otiicer of Tiberius — it must follow that the ju- 
risdiction of Tiberius was universal.— And again, 
since it is God who gives the victory in all battles, 
and since he ultimately gave the victor}- to the 
Romans, it is clear that it was his will that the 
Romans shoiddattain universal dominion: so that 
the Roman Empire was divinely instituted. 

But Dante's great fame rests mainly upon his 
poem, the Divina Commedia. In this poem 
Dante is in vision conducted through the 
realms of the Infernal Regions, of Purgatory, 
and of Paradise : Virgil being his divinely ap- 
pointed guide through the first two realms, and 
Beatrice through the third. What may be 
styled the ' " Phj-sical Theory " of these realms, 
as conceived by Dante is set forth by Dr. John 
Carlyle (whom see) in the Introduction of his 
translation of the Inferno. Each book of the 
Divina Commedia is divided into thirty-three 

52 DANTE. 

Cantos (for tho first Canto of the Inferno is 
properly an Introduction to the entire poeni), 
corresponding to the tliirty-three years of our 
Saviour's earthly life. The Inferno was prob- 
ably completed about the year 1314; the 
Puryatorio some three years later; and the 
Paradiso not long before the death <jf Dante, 
in 1321. — There have been many translations 
of Dante into English. The best translations 
of the entire Divi)ia Coniniedia are those of 
Gary (1813), and of Longfellow (1867-70). Ga- 
ry's translation is in blank verse ; Longfellow's 
is in unrhymed triplets. Mr. Thomas W. Par- 
sons, of Boston, has nuide perhaps the best 
translation of the Inferno (cantos I-X. 1843, 
the remaining Canto.s in 1867); in this the 
triple rhyme a.s well as the metre of the origi- 
nal is exceedingly well represented. The 
prose translati(3n of the Inferno by Dr. John 
Garlyle is admirably executed and annotated. 
Translations of separate passages are very 

Dante himself in a letter to Can Grande 
della Scala, explains the intention of the Di- 
vina Commedia, and the method to be em- 
ployed in its interpretation. It is called a 
"Comedy,'' he says, "because it has a for- 
tunate ending." He thus proceeds : 


The literal subject of the whole work is the state 
of the soul after death, simply considered. But il 
the work be taken allegorically, the subject is 
man, as by merit or demerit, through freedom of 
the will, he renders himself liable to the reward or 
punishment of justice. It is to be interpreted in a 
literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical sense. 
To make which mode of treatment more clear, it 
may be applied in the following verses of Scrip- 
tiire : In exitu Israel de yEgypto, damns Jacob de 
popnlo barbaro, facta est Judcea aanctificatio ejus, 
Israel potestas ejus. For if we look only at the lit- 

DANTE. 53 

eral sense, it sif]:nifies the going out of the children 
of Israel from Egypt in tlie time of Moses ; if at 
the allegorical, it signifies our redemption through 
Christ ; if at the moral, it signifies tlie conversion 
of the soul from the grief and miser\- of sin to a 
state of grace : and if at the anagogical, it signi- 
fies the passage of the blessed soul from the bond- 
age of this corruption to the freedom of eternal 


While I was rushing downward, tliere appeared 
before my eyes one who seemed hoarse from long 
silence. When I saw him in the great desert, I 
cried : " Have pity on me, whate'er thou be, 
whether shade or venerable man ! " 

He answered me : "Not a man, a man I once 
was ; and my parents were Lombards, and both 
of Mantua by country. I was born under Julius, 
though late ; and lived at Rome beneath tlie good 
Augustus, in the time of the false and lying gods. 
A Poet I was ; and sang of the just son of Anchises, 
who came from Troy after proud Ilium was 
burned. But tliou, why returnest thou to such 
disquiet? Why ascendest not the delectable 
mountain, which is the beginning and the cause 
of all gladness ? " 

"Art thou then that Virgil, and that fountain 
which pours abroad so rich a stream of speech?" 
I answered him with bashful front. "O glory 
and light of other poets ! May the long zeal avail 
me, and the great love that made me search thy 
volume. Thou art my master and my author. 
Thou alone art he from whom I took the good 
style that liath done me honor. See the beast * 
from which I turned back. Help me from her, 
thou famous sage ; for she makes my veins and 
pulses tremble.*' 

" Thou must take another road," he answered 
when he saw me weeping, "if thou desirest to 

*The She-wolf, typical of Avarice, the worship of this 
world's goods ; and of the Court of Rome in particular, 
"where." as Dante elsewhere says, "Christ is daily bought 
and sold." 

54 DANTE. 

escape from this wild place : because this beast, 
for which thou criest, lets not men pass her way, 
but so entangles that she slays them ; and has a 
nature so perverse and vicious that she never 
satiates her craving appetite ; and after feeding 
she is hungrier than before. The animals to 
which she weds herself are many ; and will yet 
be more, until the Grayhound comes, that will 
make her die with pain. He will not feed on land 
and j)elf. but on wisdom, and love, and manful- 
ness. and liis nation shall be between Feltro and 
Feltro. He shall be the salvation of that low Ital}', 
for which Camilla the virgm, Euryalus, and Tur- 
nns, and Nisus, died of wounds. He shall chase 
her through every cit}', till he have put her into 
Hell again ; from which Envy first set her loose. 
Wherefore I think and discern this for thy best, 
that thou follow me. And I will be thy guide, 
and lead thee hence through an eternal place, 
where thou shalt hear the hopeless shrieks, shalt 
see the ancient spirits in pain ; so that each calls 
for second death. And thou shalt see those who 
are contented in the fire [in Purgatory] ; for they 
hope to come, whensoever it be, among the blessed. 
Then to those [in Paradise] if thou desirest to 
ascend, there shall be a spirit [Beatrice] worthier 
than I to guide thee. With her will I leave thee 
at my parting. For that Emperor who reigns 
above — because I was rebellious to liis law — wills 
not tliat I come into his city. In all parts he rules, 
and there he dwells. There is his city, and his 
high seat. O happy whom he chooses for it ! " 

And I to him : '"Poet, I beseech thee by that 
God whom thou knewest not, in order that I may 
escape this ill and worse, lead me where thou now 
hast said, so that I may see the gate of Saint 
Peter, and those whom thou makest so sad." 
Then he moved ; and I kept on behind him. — In- 
ferno, Canto I. — Transl. o/Carlyle. 


"Through me ye pass into the city of wo : 
Through rne ye pass into eternal pain : 
Justice the founder of my fabric moved : 

DANTE. 55 

To rear me was the task of Power divine, 
Supremest Wisdom and primeval Love. 
Before me things create were none, save things 
Eternal, and eternal I endure. 
All hope abandon, ye who enter here." 

Such iluiracters. in color dim, I marked 
Over a portal's lofty porch inscribed. 
Whereat I thus : " Master, these words import 
Hard meaning."' He as one prepared, replied : 
" Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave ; 
Here be vile fear relinquished. We are come 
Where I have told thee we shall see the souls 
To misery doomed, who intellectual good 
Have lost." And when his hand he had stretched 
forth [cheered. 

To mine, witli pleasant looks, whence I was 
Into that«secret place he led me on. 

Here sighs, witli lamentations and loud moans, 
Resounded througli the air pierced by no star. 
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, 
Horrible languages, outcries of wo, 
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse. 
With hands together smote that swelled the 

Made up a tumult, that forever whirls 
Round through that air with solid darkness stained, 
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. 

I then, with error yet encompassed, cried : 
•' O Master ! what is this I hear? what race 
Are these who seem so overcome with wo?" 

He thus to me : '" This miserable fate 
Suffer the wretched souls of those who lived 
Without praise or blame, with that ill band 
Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved, 
Nor yet were true to God. but for themselves 
Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them 

Not to impair his lustre : nor the depth 
Of Hell receives them, lest the accursed tribe 
Should glory thence with exultation vain," 

I then : '• blaster, whatdotli aggrieve them thus. 
That they lan\ent so loud?" He stnught replied : 
"That I will tell thee briefly. These of death 
No hope may entertain : and their blind life 

56 DANTE. 

So meanly passes, that all other lots 
They envy. Fame of them the world has none, 
Nor suffers ; Mercy and Justice scorn thetu hoth. 
Speak not of them, but look and pass them by." 

And I, who straigJitway looked, beheld a flag, 
Which whirling ran round so rapidly. 
That it no pause obtained : and following came 
Such a long train of Spirits, I should ne'er 
Have thought that Death so many had despoiled. 

When some of these I recognized, I saw 
And knew the sliade of him who, to base fear. 
Yielding, abjured his high estate. Forthwith 
I understood for certain, this the tribe 
Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing 
And to His foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, 
Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung 
By wasps and hornets, which bedewed their 
cheeks, [their feet, 

With blood, that, mixed with tears, dropped to 
And by disgustful worms was gathered there. 

Then looking further onwards I beheld 
A throng upon the shore of a gieat stream : 
Whereat I thus : " Sir, gi-ant me now to know 
Whom here we view, and whence impelled, they 

So eager to pass o'er, as I discern 
Through the blear light ? " He thus to me in few : 
••Tliis thou shalt know, soon as our steps arrive 
Beside the woful tide of Acheron." 

Then with eyes downward cast, and filled with 
Fearing my words offensive to his ear. 
Till we had reached the river, I from speech 
Abstained. And lo ! toward us iji a bark 
Comes on an old man, hoary, white with eld, 
Crying, '* Wo to you. wicked spirits I hope not 
Ever to see the sky again. I come 
To take you to the other shore across, 
Into eternal darkness, there to dwell 
In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there 
Standest. live spirit ! get thee hence, and leave 
These who are dead ! " But soon as he beheld 
I left them not, " By otlier way," said he, 
' ' By other haven shalt thou come to shore. 

DANTE. 57 

Not by this passage ; tliee a nimbler boat 
Must carry."' Then to him tluis spake my guide : 
" Charon ! thyself torment not : So 'tis willed 
Where Will and Power are one. Ask thou no 

Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks 
Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, 
Around whose eyes glared wheeling flames. Mean- 
Those spirits, faint and naked, color changed. 
And gnashed their teeth, soon as the cruel words 
They heard. God and their i>arents they blas- 
The human-kind, the place, the time, and seed 
That did engender them and give them birth. 

Then all together sorely wailing drew 
To the cursed strand, that every man must pass 
Who fears not God. C'iaaron, demoniac form, 
With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, 
Beckoning, and each that lingers, with his oar 
Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, 
One still another following, till the bough 
Strews all its honors on the earth beneath ; 
E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood 
Cast themselves, one by one, down from the shore, 
Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. 

Thus they go over through the umbered wave ; 
And ever they on the opposing bank 
Be landed, on this side another throng 
Still gathers. "Son," thus spoke the courteous 

" Those who die subject to the %vrath of God 
All here together come from every clime 
And to o'erpass the river are not loth ; 
For so Heaven's justice goads them on, that fear 
Is turned into desire. Hence ne'er hath passed 
Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, 
Now may'st thou know the import of his words." 

—Inferno, Canto IIL—Ti^ansl. of Cary. 


" The land where I was born sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends. 
With all liis followers, in search of peace. 

58 DANTE. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprelieiiils. 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me ; and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, wlio to none beloved to love again 

Remits, seized me with wish to please so strong. 
That, as thou seest, yet, it doth remain. 

Love to one deatli conducted lis along ; 
But Caina waits for liim our life who ended." 
These were the accents uttered by her tongue. 

Since first I listened to these souls offended, 
I bowed my visage, and so kept it, till 
'• What think'st thou?" said the bard; when I 

And recommenced : "Alas I unto such ill 
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstacies, 
Led these their evil fortunes to fulfil ! " 

And I turned unto their side mine eyes. 
And said : " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs 
By what, and how, thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognize." 

Then she to me : '* The greatest of all woes 
Is, to remind us of our happy days 
In misery : and that thy Teacher knows. 

But if to learn our passion's first root, preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
I will do even as he who weeps and says. 

We read one day for pastime — seated nigh — 
Of Lancilot ; how Love enchained him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously ; 

But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o'er discolored by that reading were ; 
But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; 

When we read the long sighed-for smile of her, 
To be thus kissed by such devoted lover, 
He, who from me can be divided ne'er, 

Eassed my mouth — trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the liook, and he who wrote ! 
That day no further leaf we did uncover." 

Willie thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity's thrills 
I swooned, as if by death I had been smote ; 

And fell down even as a dead body falls. 
—Infenw, Canto Y.—Traml. o/ByroN. 

DANTE. 59 


" O Tuf5can, thou who com'st with gentle speech 
Through Hell's hot city, breathing from the earth 
Stop in this place one moment, I beseech. 
Thy tongue betrays the country of thy birth ; 
Of that illustrious land I know thee sprung 
Which in my day, perchance, Isomewhat vext." 
Forth from one vault these sudden accents rung. 
So that I trembling stood with fear perplext. 
Then as I closer to my Master drew, 
"Turnback! what dost thou?" he exclaimed 
in haste; 
" See Farinata rises to thy view ! 
Now may'st behold him upward from the 

waist ! " 
Full in his face already I was gazing 
While his front lowered and his proud bosom 
As though even there, amid his burial blazing. 
The infernal realm in high disdain ho held. 
My Leader then, with ready hands and bold. 
Forced me towards him. among the graves to 

Saying, " Thy thoughts in open words unfold.*' 
So by his tomb I stood — beside its base. 

Glancing upon me with a scornful air, 
" Who were thine ancestors? " he coldly asked. 
Willing to answer, I did not forbear 
My name or lineage, but the whole unmasked. 
Slightly the spirit raised his haughty brows. 
And said : ' ' Thy sires to me and mine were aye 
adverse — 
To me, and to the cause I did espouse ; 
Therefore their legions twice did I disperse." 
"What though they banished were? They all 
Each time of their expulsion," I replied : 
"That is an art thy party never learned." 
Hereat arose a shadow at his side. 

Uplifted on his knees he seemed to me. 
For his face only to his chin was bare : 
And round about he stai-ed, as thovigh to see 
If other mortal than myself were there. 
But when that momentary dream was o'er, 

60 DANTE. 

Weeping he groaned : " If thou this dungeon dim, 
Led by thy soaring genius dost explore, 
Where is my son? all, wherefore bringst not 
him 'i " 

' ' Not of myself I seek this realm forlorn ; 
He who waits yonder marshals me my road ; 
Whom once, perchance, thy Guido had in scorn." 

My recognition thus I fully showed ; 

For in the pangs on that poor sinner wreaked, 
And in his question, plain his name I read. 

Suddenly starting up — "What! what!" he 

shrieked ; [dead? 

Say'st thou He had ? What mean ye ? Is he 

Doth heaven's dear light his eyes no longer 

bless ? " 

Perceiving how I hesitated, then 
Ere I responded to his wild address, 
Backward lie shrunk, nor looked he forth again. 

— Inferno Canto X. — Transl. of Parsons. 


Divers lamentings pierced me through and 
Which with compassion had their an'ows barbed. 
Whereat mine ears I covered with my hands. 

What pain would be, if from the hospitals 
Of Valdichiana 'twixt July and September, 
And of Maremma and Sardinia 

All the diseases in one moat were gathered. 
Such was it here, and such a stench came 

from it 
As from putrescent limbs is wont to issue. 

We had descended on the furthest bank 

From the long crag upon the left hand still, 
And then more vivid was my power of sight 

Down towards the bottom, where the ministress 
Of the high Lord — Justice infallible — 
Punishes forgers which she here records. 

I do not thmk a sadder sight to see 
Was in ^gina — the whole people sick, 
(When was the air so full of pestilence. 

The animals, down to the little worm. 
All fell : and afterwards the ancient people. 
According as the poets have affirmed, 

DANTE. 61 

Were from the seed of ants restored again), 
Than was it to behold through that dark valley 
The spirits languishing in divers heaps. 
This on the.belly, that upon the back 
One of the other lay, and others crawling 
Shifted themselves along the dismal road. 
We step by step went onward without speech. 
Gazing upon and listening to tlie sick 
Who had not strength enough to lift their bodies. 
I saw two sitting leaned against each other, 
As leans in heating platter against platter. 
From head to foot bespotted o'er with scabs ; 
And never saw I plied a currycomb 
By stable-boy for whom his master waits, 
Or him wlio keeps awake unwillingly. 
As every one was plying fast the bite 
Of nails upon liimself , for the great rage 
Of itching which no other succor had. 
And the nails downward with them dragged the 
In fashion as a knife the scales of bream. 
Or any other fish that has them largest. 
" O thou, that with thy fingers dost dismail thee," 
Began my Leader unto one of them, 
" And makest of them pincers now and then, 
Tell me if any Latian is with those 
Who are herein ; so may thy nails sufSce thee 
To all eternity unto this work." 
"Latians are we, w]\oni thou so wasted seest. 
Both of us here," one weeping made reply ; 
••But who art thou, that questionest about us?" 
And said the Guide : " One am I who descends 
Down A\ ith this living man from cliff to cliff. 
And I intend to show Hell unto him." 
Then broken was their mutual support, 

And trembling each one turned himself to me. 
With others who had heard him by rebound. 
Wholly to me did the good Maeter gather, 
Saying: "Say unto them whate'er thou wish- 

And I began, since he would have it so : 
* ■ So may your memoiy not steal away ■ 
In the first world from out the minds of men. 
But so may it smvive 'neath many suns. 

62 DANTE. 

Unfold me who ye are, and of what people. 

Let not your foul and loathsome punishment 

Make you afraid to show yourselves to me." 
"I of Arezzo was." one made reply, 

'• And Albert of Siena hud me burned ; 

But what I died for does not bring me here, 
'Tis true I said to liim, speaking in jest. 

That I could rise b\' fligl\t into the air. 

And he. who had conceit but little wit. 
"Would have me show to him the art ; and only 

Because no Da:?dalus I made him, made me 

Be burned by one who held him as his son. 
But imto tlie last Bolgia of tlie ten 

For alchemy, wliich in the world I practised, 

Minos — who cannot err — has me condemned." 
And to the Poet said I : '* Now was ever 

So vain a people as the Sienese ? 

Not for a certainty the French by far." 
Wliereat the other leper, wholiad heard me. 

Replied unto mj^ si)eecli : '• Taking out Stricca, 

Who knew the art of moderate expenses, 
And Niccolo, who the luxurious use 

Of cloves discovered earliest of all 

Within that garden where such seed takes root ; 
And taking out the band, among whom squan- 

Caccia d'Ascian liis vineyards and woods. 

And where his wit tlie AbbagUato proffered ! 
But, tliat thou know who thus doth secon<l tliee 

Against the Sienese, make sharp thine ej'e, 

Towards me. so that my face will answer thee, 
And tliou shalt see I am Capocchio's shade, 

Who metals falsified by alchemy ; 

Thou must remember, if I well descry thee. 
How I a skilful ape of nature was." 
—Inferno, Canto XXIX.— r/a?is/. o/Longfellow. 


' ' The banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth 
Toward us ; therefore look," so spoke my Guide, 
" If thou discern him." As when breathes a cloud 
Heavy-and dense, or when the shades of night 
Fall on our liemisphere, seems viewed from far 
A windmill, wliicli tlie blast stirs briskly round ; 

DANTE. 63 

Such was the fabric then methought I saw. 

To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew, 
Beliind my guide : no covert else was there. 

Now caiuo 1 (and wiili fear 1 bid my strain 
Record the marvel) where the souls were all 
Wlielmed underneath, transparent as through glass 
Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid ; 
Others stood upright, this upon the soles. 
That on the head, a third with face to feet 
Arched like a bow. When to the point we came, 
Whereat my Guide was pleased that I should see 
The creature eminent in beauty once. 
He from before me stepped, and made me pause. 

" Lo ! " lie exclaimed, '* lo Dis : and lo the place, 
Where thou hast need to arm thyself with 

How frozen and how faint I then became, 
Ask me not, reader ! for I write it not ; 
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. 
I was not dead nor living. Think thyself. 
If quick conception work in thee at all. 
How I did feel. That Emperor who sways 
The reahn of sorrow, at mid-breast from the ice 
Stood forth ; and I in stature am more like 
A giant, than the giants are his arms. 
Mark now how great that whole must be which 

With such a part. If he were beautiful 
As he is hideous now, and yet did dare 
To scowl upon his Maker, well from him 
May all our misery flow. Oh what a sight ! 
How passing strange it seemed when I did spy 
Upon his head three faces : one in front 
Of hue vermilion, the other two with this 
Midway each shoulder joined and at the crest ; 
The right "twixt wan and yellow seemed ; the left, 
To look on, such as come from whence old Nile 
Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth 
Two mighty wings, enormous as became 
A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw 
Outstretched on the wide sea. No plumes had 

But were in texture like a bat ; and these 
He flapped i' th' air, that from him issued still 

64 DANTE. 

Three winds wherewith Cocytus to its depth 
Was frozen. At sLs eyes he wept : the tears 
Adown three chins distilled with bloody foam. 
At every mouth his teetli a sinner champed 
Bruised ay with ponderous engine : so that three 
Were in this guise tormented. Hut far more 
Than from that gnawing, was tlie foremost panged 
By the tierce rending, whence ofttimes the back 
Was stripped of all its skin. '' That upper spirit, 
Who lias worst punisliment,"' so spake my guide, 
" Is Judas — he that hath his head within, 
And plie^ the feet without. Of the other two 
W^hose heads are under, from the murky jaw 
Who hangs, is Brutus : lo how he doth writhe. 
And speaks not. The other Cassius, that appears 
So large of limb. But night now re-ascends ; 
And it is time for parting. All is seen." 
—Inferno, Canto XXXIV.— TVansZ. of Gary. 


We still were on the border of the sea. 

Like people who are thinking of their road. 
Who go in heart, and with the body stay, 

And lo ! as when, upon the approach of morning, 
Through the gross vapors Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me — may I again behold it ! — 
A light upon the sea so swiftly coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled ; 

From which when I a little had withdrawn 
Mine eyes that I might question my Conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Then on each side of it appeared to me 

I knew not what of white, and underneath it 
Little by little there came forth another. 

My Master yet had uttered not a word 
While the first whiteness into wings unfolded ; 
But when he clearly recognized the pilot. 

He cried : "Make haste, make haste to bow the 
knee ! 
Behold the Angel of God ! fold thou thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

See how he scorneth human arguments, 
So that nor oar he wants, nor other sail 

DANTE. 65 

Than his own wings, between so distant shores. 

See how lie liolds them pointed up to heaven, 
Fanning the aii* with the eternal pinions. 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair '." 

Then as still nearer and more near us came 
The Bird Divine, more radiant he appeared. 
So that near V)y the ej'e could not endure him, 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, very swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ; 
Beatitude seemed written in his face. 
And more than a hundred sjiirits sat within. 

'^ In exitu Israel de jEgypto!'' 
They chanted all together in one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them. 
Whereat all cast tliemselves upon the shore. 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 

The throng which still remained there unfamiliar 
Seemed with the place, all round about them 

As one who in new matters makes essay. 

Then the new people lifted up their faces 
Towards us, saying to us : '" If ye know, 
Show us the way to go unto the mountain." 

And answer made Virgilius : " Ye believe. 
Perchance, that we have knowledge of this 

place ; 
But we are strangers even as yourselves. 

Just now we came, a little while before you. 
Another way, which was so rough and steep 
That mounting will henceforth seem sport to us.'" 

Even as when collecting grain or tares. 
The doves together at their pasture met, 
Quiet, nor showing their accustomed pride, 

If aught appear of which they are afraid, 
Upon a sudden leave their food alone, 
Because they are assailed by greater care ; 

So that fresh company did I behold 
The song I'eiinquish, and go toward the hill, 
As one who goes, and knows not whitherward ; 

Nor was our own departure less in kaste. 
— i^uryafono. Canto II. — Transl. of LoNO- 



O grace unenvying of tliy boon ! that gavest 
Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken 
Un the Everlastmg Splentlor, that I looked. 
While sight was iinconsnnied ; and, in that depth, 
Saw in one volume clasped of love, whate'er 
The universe unfolds ; all properties 
Of Substance and of Accident, beheld, 
Compounded, yet one individual light 
Tlie whole. And of such bond methinks I saw 
The universal form ; for that whene'er 
I do but speak of it, my soul dilates 
Beyond her proper self ; and till I speak. 
One moment seems a longer lethargy 
Than five-and-twenty ages had appeared 
To that emprise tliat first made Neptune wonder 
At Argo's shadow darkening on his flood. 

With fixed heed, suspense and motionless 
Wondering I gazed ; and admiration still 
Was kindled as I gazed. It may not be 
That one who looks upon that light can turn 
To other object, willingly, his view. 
For all the good that will may covet, there 
Is summed ; and all elsewhere defective found 
Complete. My tongue shall utter, now, no more, 
E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the 

That yet is moistened at his mother's breast. 

Not that the semblance of the living Light 
Was changed (that ever as at first remained) ; 
But that my vision quickening, in that sole 
Appearance, still new miracles descried. 
And toiled me with the change. In that abyss 
Of radiance, clear and lofty, seemed, methought, 
Three orbs of triple hue, clipped in one bound ; 
And from another, one reflected seemed, 
As rainbow is from rainbow ; and the third 
Seemed fire, breathed equally from both. O 

speech ! 
How feeble and how faint art thou, to give 
Conception birth. Yet this to what I saw 
Is less than little, O Eternal Light ! 
Sole in thyself that dwellest ; and of thyseK 
Sole understood, past, present, or to come ; 


Thou smiledst on tliat circling, which in Thee 
Seemed as reflected splendor, wliilo I mused ; 
For I therein, methought, in its own hue 
Beheld our image painted. Steadfastly 
I therefore pored upon the view. As one 
Who, versed in geometric lore, would fain 
Measure the circle ; and, though pondering long 
And deeply, that beginning, Avhich he needs. 
Finds not : E'en such was I. intent to scan 
The novel wonder, and trace out the form, 
How to the circle fitted, and therein 
How placed. But the flight was not for my wing ; 
Had not a flash darted athwart my mind. 
And, in the spleen, unfolded what it sought. 

Here vigor failed the towering fantasy : 
But yet the will rolled onward, like the wheel 
In even motion, by the Love impelled 
That moves the Sun in heaven and all the Stars. 

— ParadisQ. Canto XXXIII. — Tranal. of Cary. 

DARLEY, George, a British mathemati- 
cian and poet, born at Dublin in 1785, died at 
London in 1849. He was educated at Trinity 
College, Dublin, went to London in 1825, and 
became in time connected Avith literary jour- 
nals, for which he wrote criticisms upon po- 
etry and the fine arts. He was the author of 
several popular works on mathematics, 
among which are Familiar Astronomy, Pop- 
ular Algebra, Geometrical Companion, and 
Trigonometry. His principal poetic works 
are: Sylvia, or the May Queen; Ethelstan, 
a Dramatic Chronicle; and Errors of 


Here 's a bank rich with cowslips and cuckoo- 
buds strown, 
To exalt your bright locks, gentle Queen of the 
May ! 
Here 's a cushion of moss for yoiu- delicate shoon, 
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay. 


Here 's a garland of red maiden-roses for you ; 

Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone ; 
Here 's a golden king-cup, brimming over with 

To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own. 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the 
That the nymph of the wave on j-our wrists 
doth l>estow ; 
Here 's a lily-wrought scarf your sweet blushesto 
Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow. 

Here "s a myrtle enwreathed vA-ith a jessamine band, 
To express the fond twining of beauty and 
youth ; 
Take the emblem of Love in thj'^ exquisite hand, 
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of 

Then around you we '11 dance, and around you 
we '11 sing, 
To soft pipe and tabor we '11 foot it away ; 
And the hills and the dales and the forest shall 
While we hail you our lovely young Queen of 
the May. 


Have you not oft, in the still wind, 
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind. 
That rose one moment, and then fell. 
Swooning away like a far knell ? 

Listen ! — that wave of perfume broke 
Into sea-music, as I spoke. 
Fainter than that which seems to roar 
On the moon's silver sanded shore. 
When through the silence of the night 
Is heard the ebb ami flow of light. 

Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear ! 
Do you not heai* — or think you hear — 
A wide hush o'er the the woodland pass, 
Like distant waving fields of grass? — 
Voices ! ho I ho I — a band is coming, 


Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming, 

Or ranks of little merrj^ men 

Tromboning deeply from the glen ; 

And now as if they changed, and rung 

Their citterns, small and ribbon-slung, 

Over their gallant shoulders hung ; 

A chant ! a chant ! that swoons and swells, 

Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells ; 

Now brave, as when in Flora's bower 

Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower ; 

Now thrilling fine, and sharp and clear. 

Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer ; 

But mixed with whoops and infant laughter, 

Shouts following one another after, 

As on a hearty holiday 

When youth is flush and full of May ; — 

Small shouts, indeed, as wild-bees know 

Both how to hum and halloo too. 

DARWIN, Charles Robert, an English 
naturalist and author, born February 12, 
1809, died April 20, 1882. He was the son of 
Robert Waring Darwin, a physician, and 
grandson of Erasmus Darwin, physician and 
poet. He received his early education in the 
grammar-school of Shrewsbury, his native 
town, studied two years at Edinburgh Uni- 
versity, and then entered Christ College, 
Cambridge, where he received his bachelor's 
degree in 1831. In December of the same year 
he volunteei-ed to go as naturahst with Cap- 
tain Fitzroy of H.M.S. Beagle, for a survey 
of South America and the circumnavigation 
of the globe. They returned in 1836. Dar- 
win's life was devoted to science. His earliest 
well-known work is The Voyage of a Natural- 
ist; a Journal of Researches into the Geology 
and Natural History of the Various Countries 
visited by H.M.S. Beagle (1839). He Avrote the 
introduction and many of the notes to the 
Zoology of the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle, 
published by the government in 1840-43 : The 
Structure and Distribution of Coral Reefs 


(1843) ; Geological Observations on Volcanic 
Islands (1844); Geological Observations on 
South America (1846) ; Monograph of the 
Family Cirripedia (1851-53) ; The Origin of 
Species by means of Natural Selection, or 
the Preservation of Favored Races in the 
Struggle for Life (1859) ; Fertilization of 
Orchids (1862) ; Movement in Climbing Plants 
(1865) ; Variation of Plants and Animals 
under Domestication (1867) ; The Descent of 
Man and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871) ; 
Expression of the Emotions in Man and Ani- 
mals (1873) ; Insectivorous Plants (1875) ; The 
Effects of Cross and Self-fertilization in the 
Vegetable Kingdom (1876) ; Different Forms 
of Floivers in Plants of the Same Species 
(1877) ; Power of Movement in Plants (1880) ; 
and The Formation of Vegetable Mould 
through the Action of Worms, with Observa- 
tions on their Habits (1881). 

In the Origin of Species Darwin sets forth 
the theorj' that the various species of plants 
and animals were not separately created, but 
that they are the result of the adaptation of 
parts to environment, and to the effort to 
maintain existence and propagate their kind. 
In this "struggle for existence " the stronger 
species survive and multiply, the Aveaker and 
more imperfect perish, and organic life rises, 
by almost imperceptible degrees, to higher 
forms. Thus from one or, at most, from a 
few low forms of life, all existing species have 
been evolved. 


• I should premise that I use this term in a large 
and metaphorical sense, including dependence of 
one being on another, and including (which is 
more important) not only the life of the individual, 
but success in leaving progeny. Two canine 
animals, in a time of dearth, may be truly said to 
struggle with each other which shall get food and 


live. But a plant on the edge of a desert is said 
to struggle for life against the drought, though 
moi'e properly it should be said to be dependent on 
the moisture. A plant which annually produces 
a thousand seeds, of which only one on an average 
comes to maturity, may be more truly said to 
struggle with the plants of the same and other 
kinds which already clothe the ground. The mis- 
letoe is dependent on the apple and a few other 
trees, but can only in a far-fetched sense be said 
to struggle with these trees, for, if too many of 
these parasites grow on the same tree, it languishes 
and dies. But several seedling misletoes, grow- 
ing close together on the same branch, may more 
truly be said to struggle with each other. As the 
misletoe is disseminated by birds, its existence 
depends on them ; and it may metaphorically be 
said to struggle with other fruit-bearing plants, in 
tempting the birds to devour and thus disseminate 
its seeds. In these several senses, which pass into 
each other, I use for convenience sake the general 
term of Struggle for Existence, — Origin of Species. 


It may be worth while to give another and more 
complex illustration of the action of natural selec- 
tion. Certain plants excrete sweet juice, appar- 
ently for the sake of eliminating something injuri- 
ous from the sap : this is effected, for instance, 
by glands at the base of the stipules in some 
Leguminosse, and at the backs of the leaves of the 
common laurel. This juice, though small in 
quantity, is greedily sought by insects ; but their 
visits do not in any way benefit the plant. Now, 
let us suppose that the juice or nectar was ex- 
creted from the inside of the flowers of a certain 
number of plants of any species. Insects in seek- 
ing the nectar would get dusted with pollen, and 
would often transport it from one flower to an- 
other. The flowers of two distinct individuals of 
the same species would thus get crossed ; and the 
act of crossing, as can be fully proved, gives rise 
to vigorous seedlings, which consequently would 


have the best chance of flourishing and surviving. 
The plants which produced flowers witli the larg- 
est glands or nectai'ies, excreting most nectar, 
would oftenest he visited by insects, and would 
oftenost be crossed ; and so in the long-run would 
gain the upper hand and form a local variety. The 
flowers also, which had their stamens and pistils 
placed, in relation to the size and habits of the 
particular insect which visited them, so as to 
favor in any degree the transportal of the pollen, 
would likewise be favored. We might have taken 
the case of insects visiting flowers for the sake of 
collecting pollen instead of nectar ; and as pollen 
is formed for the sole purpose of fertilization, its 
destruction appears to be a simple loss to the 
plant ; yet if a little pollen were carried, at first 
occa«ionally, and then habitually, by the pollen- 
devouring insects from flower to flower, and a 
cross thus effected, although nine-tenths of the 
pollen were destroyed, it might still be a great 
gain to the plant to be thus robbed ; and the indi- 
viduals which produce more and more pollen, and 
had larger anthers, would be selected. When our 
plant, by the above process long continued, had 
been rendered highly attractive to insects, they 
would, unintentionally on their part, regularly 
carry pollen from flower to flower ; and that they 
do this effectually, I could easily show by many 
striking facts. . . , 

Let us now turn to the nectar-feeding insects ; 
we may suppose the plant, of which we have been 
slowly increasing the nectar by continued selec- 
tion, to be a common plant ; and that certain 
insects depended in main part on its nectar for 
food. I could give many facts showing how 
anxious bees are to save time : for instance, their 
habit of cutting holes and sucking the nectar at 
the bases of certain flowers, which with a very 
little more trouble, they can enter by the mouth. 
Bearing such facts in mind, it may be beUeved 
that under certain circumstances individual differ- 
ences in tlie curvature or length of the proboscis, 
etc., too slight to be appreciated by us, might 
profit a bee or other insect, so that certain individ- 


iials would be able to obtain their food more 
quickly than others ; and thus the communities 
to which they belonged would flourish and throw 
off many swarms inheriting the same peculiari- 
ties. The tubes of the corolla of the common red 
and incarnate clovers (TVi/oZiMwprafe».se and in- 
carnatum) do not on a hasty glance appear to dif- 
fer in length ; yet the hive-bee can easily suck the 
nectar out of the incarnate clover, but not out of 
the common red clover, which is visited by humble- 
bees alone ; so that whole fields of the red clover 
offer in vain an abundant supply of precious nec- 
tar to the liive-bee. Tliat this nectar is much 
liked by the hive-bee is certain ; for I liave repeat- 
edly seen, but only in autumn, many hive-bees 
sucking the flowers througli holes bitten in the 
base of the tube by humble-bees. The difference 
in the length of the corolla in the two kinds of 
clover which determines the visits of the hive-bee, 
must be very trifling ; for I have been assured 
that when red clover has been mown, the flowers 
of the second crop are somewhat smaller, and 
that these are visited by many hive-bees. 

I do not know whether this statement is accu- 
rate ; nor whether another published statement 
can be trusted, namel}-, that the Ligurian bee, 
which is generally considered a mere variety of 
the common hive-bee, and which freely crosses 
with it, is able to reach and suck the nectar of the 
red clover. Thus, in a country where this kind of 
clover abounded, it might be a great advantage 
to the hive-bee to have a slightly longer or differ- 
ently constructed proboscis. On the other hand, 
as the fertility of this clover absolutely depends 
on bees visiting the flowers, if humble-bees were 
to become rare in any country, it might be a 
great advantage to the plant to have a shorter or 
more deeply divided corolla, so that the hive-bees 
sliould be enabled to suck its flowers. Thus I can 
understand how a flower and a bee might slowly 
become, either simultaneously or one after the 
other, modified and adapted to each other in the 
most perfect manner, by the continued preserva- 
tion of all the individuals which presented slight 


deviations of structure mutually favorable to each 

I am well aware that this doctrine of natural 
selection, exemplified in the above imaginary 
instances, is open to the same objections which 
were first urged against Sir Charles Lyell's noble 
views on " the modern changes of the earth, as il- 
lustrative of geology ; " but we now seldom hear 
the agencies which we see still at work, spoken of 
as trifling or insignificant, when used in explain- 
ing the excavation of the deepest valleys or the 
formation of long lines of inland cliffs. Natural 
selection acts only by the preservation and accu- 
mulation of small inherited modifications, each 
profitable to the preserved being ; and as modern 
geology ha.s almost banished such views as the ex- 
cavation of a great valley by a single diluvial 
wave, so will natural selection banish the belief 
of the continued creation of new organic beings, 
or of any great and sudden modification in their 
structure. — Origin of Species. 


In considering how far the theory of natural 
selection may be extended — that is, in determin- 
ing from how many progenitors the inhabitants of 
the world have descended — we may conclude that 
at least all the members of the same class have 
descended from a single ancestor. A number of 
organic beings are included in the same class, be- 
cause they present, independently of their habits 
of life, the same fundamental type of structure, 
and because they graduate into each other. More- 
over, members of the same class can in most 
cases be shown to be closely alike at an early em- 
bryonic age. These facts can be explained on the 
belief of their descent from a common form ; 
therefore it may be safely admitted that all the 
members of the same class are descended from 
one progenitor. But as the members of (}uite dis- 
tinct classes have something in common in struc- 
ture and much in common in constitution, analogy 
would lead us one step further, and to infer as 
probable that all living creatures are descended 


from a single prototype. — Variation of Animals 
and Plants under Domestication. 


Most of tlie complex emotions are common to 
the higher animals and ourselves. Every one has 
seen how jealous a dog is of his ma.ster's affection, 
if lavished on any other creature : and I observed 
the same fact with monkeys. This shows that 
animals not only love, but have desire to be loved. 
Animals manifestly feel emulation. They love 
approbation or pi-aise ; and a dog carr jing a 
basket for his master exhibits in a high degree 
self-complacency or pride. There can, I think, be 
no doubt that a dog feels shame, as distinct from 
fear, and something very like modesty when beg- 
ging too often for food. A great dog scorns the 
snarling of a little dog, and this may be called 
magnanimity. Several observers have stated that 
monkeys certainly dislike being laughed at ; and 
they sometimes invent imaginary offenses. In the 
Zoological Gardens I saw a baboon who always 
got into a furious rage when his keeper took out a 
letter or book and read it aloud to him : and his 
rage was so violent that, as I witnessed on one oc- 
casion, he bit his own leg till the blood flowed. 
Dogs show what may be fairly called a sense of 
humor, as distinct from mere play : if a bit of 
stick or other such object be thrown to one, he 
will often carry it away for a short distance ; and 
then squatting down with it on the ground close 
before him, will wait until his master comes 
quite close to take it awaj". The dog will then 
seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the 
same manoeuvre, and evidently enjoying the 
practical joke. 

We will now turn to the more intellectual 
emotions and faculties, which are very impor- 
tant as forming the basis for the development of 
the higher mental powers. Animals manifestly 
enjoy excitement, and suffer from ennui, as may 
be seen with dogs, and, according to Rengger, 
with monkeys. All animals feel wonder, and 
many exhibit curiosity. They sometimes suffer 


from this latter quality, as when the hunter plays 
antics and thus attracts them ; I have witnessed 
this with deer, and so it is with tlie wary chamois, 
and some kinds of wild ducks. Brehm gives a 
curious account of the instinctive dread which his 
monkeys exhibited for snakes ; but their curiosity 
was so great that they could not desist from occa- 
sionally satiating their horror in a most human 
fashion, by lifting up the lid of the box in which 
the snakes were kept. I was so much surprised at 
liis account, that I took a stuffed and coiled-up 
snake into the monkey-house at the Zoological 
Gardens, and the excitement thus caused was 
one of the most curious spectacles which I ever 
beheld. Three species of Cercopithecus were the 
most alarmed ; they dashed about their cages, 
and uttered sharp signal-cries of danger, which 
were understood by the other monkeys. A few 
young monkeys and one old Anubis baboon alone 
took no notice of the snake. I then placed the 
stuffed specimen on the ground in one of the 
larger compartments. After a time all the mon- 
keys collected around it in a large circle, and star- 
ing intently, presented a most ludicrous appear- 
ance. They became extremely nervous ; so that 
when a wooden ball with which they were famil- 
iar as a plaything, was accidently moved in the 
straw, under which it was partly hidden, they all 
instantly started away. These monkeys behaved 
very differently when a dead fish, a mouse, a 
living turtle, and other new objects were placed 
in the cages ; for though at first frightened, they 
soon approached, handled, and examined them. I 
then placed a hve snake in a paper bag with the 
mouth loosely closed, in one of the larger com- 
partments. One of the monkeys immediately ap- 
proached, cautiously opened the bag a little, 
peeped in, and instantly dashed away. Then I 
witnessed what Brehm has described, for monkey 
after monkey, with head raised high and turned 
on one side, could not resist taking a momentary 
peep into the upright bag, at the dreadful object 
lying quietly at the bottom. — Tlie Descent of Man. 



There is one marine production, which, from 
its importance, is worthy of a particular history. 
It is the kelp, or Macrocyatis pyrifera. This 
plant grows on every rock from low water mark 
to a great depth, both on the outer coast and with- 
in the channels. I believe, during the voyages of 
the Adenture and Beagle, not one rock near the 
surface was discovered which was not buoyed by 
this floating weed. The good service it thus 
affords to vessels navigating near this stormy 
land is evident ; and it certainly has saved many 
a one from being wrecked. I know few things 
more surprising than to see this plant growing and 
flourishing amidst those great breakers of the 
Western Ocean, which no mass of rock, let it be 
ever so hard, can long resist. The stem is round, 
slimy, and smooth, and seldom has a diameter of 
so much as an inch. A few taken together are 
sufficiently strong to support the weight of the 
large loose stones to which, in the inland chan- 
nels, they grow attached ; and yet some of these 
stones were so heavy that, when drawn to the 
surface, they could scarcely be lifted into a boat 
by one person. The beds of this sea-weed, even 
when not of great bi'eadth, make excellent na- 
tural floating breakwaters. It is quite curious to 
see, in an exposed harbor, how soon the waves 
from the open sea, as they travel through the 
straggling stems, sink in height, and pass into 
smooth water. 

The ntimber of living creatures of all Orders, 
whose existence intimately depends on the kelp, 
is wonderful. A great volume might be written 
describing the inhabitants of one of these beds of 
sea-weed. Almost all the leaves, excepting those 
that float on the surface, are so thickly incrusted 
with corallines as to be of a white color. W^e flnd 
exquisitely delicate structmres, some inhabited by 
simple hydra-like polypi, others by more organ- 
ized kinds, and beautiful compound Ascidiae. On 
the leaves, also, various patelliform shells, Trochi, 
uncovered molluscs, and some bivalves are at- 
tached. Innumerable Crustacea frequent every 


part of the plant. On shaking the great entangled 
roots, a pile of small fish, shells, cuttle-fish, crabs 
of all orders, sea-eggs, star-fish, beautiful Holu- 
thuriae, Planariae, and crawling nereidous animals 
of a multitude of forms, all fall out together. 
Often as I recurred to a branch of the kelp, I never 
failed to discover animals of new and curious 
structures. In Chiloe, wliere the kelp does not 
thrive very well, the numerous shells, corallines, 
and Crustacea are absent : but there yet remain a 
few of the Fkistracea;, and some compound As- 
cidiae ; the latter, however, are of different species 
from tliose in Tierra del Fuego ; we here see the 
fucus possessing a wider range than the animals 
wliich use it as an abode. I can only compare 
tliese great aquatic forests of the southern hemi- 
sphere with the terrestrial ones in the intertropi- 
cal regions. Yet if in any country a forest was 
destroyed, I do not believe nearly so many species 
of animals would perish as would here from the 
destruction of the kelp. Amidst the leaves of 
this plant many species of fish live, which no- 
where else could find food or shelter ; with their 
destruction tlie many cormorants and other fish- 
ing birds, the otters, seals, and porpoises, would 
soon perish also ; and lastly, the Fuegian savage, 
the miserable lord of this miserable land, would 
redouble his cannibal feast, decrease in numbers, 
and perhaps cease to exist. — Journal of Researches 
into the Natural History and Geology, etc. 

DARWIN, Erasmus, an English physician 
and poet, born in 1731, died in 1802. After 
several years spent at Exeter School, he 
entered St. John's College, Cambridge, where 
he won the Exeter Scholarship. Having com- 
pleted his medical course at Edinburgh, he 
married, settled in Lichfield, and established 
a large practice. On the death of his wife in 
1770, he seems to have begun his botanical 
and poetical studies. While at Cambridge he 
had written poetry, one poem on The Death 
of Prince Frederick written then, being pub- 


lished more than forty years afterwards. In 
1781 appeared The Economy of Vegetation, 
being the first part of his Botanic Garden, a 
poem in heroic verse in honor of the Linnsean 
system of Botany. In the same year Dar- 
win married again, and removed t(j Derby. 
His poem was highly popular, and in 1789 he 
published the second ])art, entitled Tlie Loves 
of the Plants. A third part appeared in 1792. 
Darwin next published Zoonomia, or the 
Laics of Organic Life (17M-6), "an endeavor 
to reduce the facts belonging to animal life, 
into classes, orders, genera, and species ; and, 
by comparing them with each other, to 
unravel the theory of diseases." Phytolo- 
gia, or the Philosophy of Agriculture and 
Gardening, was published in 1800. Darwin's 
last publication was a treatise on Female Ed- 
ucation. The Templeof Nature, or the Origin 
of Society, a Poem icith Philosophical Notes, 
was published after his death. He died sud- 
denly of an attack of gout. He had, neverthe- 
less, been a remarkably temperate man, and 
had done much, both by example and effort 
to diminish drunkenness in Lichfield. A 
sketch of Darwin's life by Miss Seward ma- 
liciously misrepresents his amiable and be- 
nevolent character. 


" Winds of the north ! restrain your icy gales, 
Nor chill the bosom of the happy vales ! 
Hence in dark heaps, ye gathering clouds, revolve ! 
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve ! 
Hither, emerging from yon orient skies, 
Botanic Goddess, bend thy radiant eyes ; 
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, 
Pomena, Ceres, Flora, in thy train ; 
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse, 
And with thy silver sandals print the dews ; 
In noon's bright blaze thy vermeil vest unfold, 
And wave tk.y emeuald banner starred withgokl." 


Thus spoke the Grenius as he stepped along, 
And bade these lawns to peace and truth belong ; 
Down the steep slopes he led witli modest skill 
The willing pathway and the truant rill ; 
Stretclied o'er the marshy vale yon willowy 

Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground ; 
Raised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy 

And gave to beauty all the quiet scene. 
She comes ! the goddess I through the whispering 

Bright as the morn descends her blushing car ; 
Each circlin}^ wheel a wreath of flowt^rs entwines, 
And. gemmed with flowers, the silken harness 

shines : 
The golden bits with flowery studs are decked, 
And knots of flowers the crimson reins connect. 
And now on earth the silver axle rings, 
And the sliell sinks upon its slender springs ; 
Light from her airy seat the godtless bounds, 
And steps celestial press the pansied grounds. 
Fair Spring advancing, calls her feathered quire. 
And tunes to softer notes her laughmg ij-re ; 
Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move. 
And arms her zephyrs with the shafts of love. 
— TJie Botanic Garden. 

Now stood Eliza on tne wood-crowned height. 
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of tlie fight ; 
Souglit with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; 
From hill to hill the i-usbiug host pursued, 
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
And one fair girl amid the loud alarm 
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm : 
While round her brows bright beams of Honor 

And Love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 
Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed, 
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest ; 


Saw on his helm her virgin hands inwove, 
Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love ; 
Heard the exulting shour, "They run ! they run! "' 
" Great Godi " she cried, " he 's safe ! the battle 's 

won ! " 
A ball now hisses through the airy tides- 
Some fury winged it. and some demon guides !— 
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck, 
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck ; 
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
•' Ah me ! " she cried, and sinking on the ground, 
Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound ; 
" O cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ! 
Wait, gusliing life. O wait my love's return ! '' 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the ^^llture screams from 

The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ! 
" O spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ; 
On me, on me." she cried, '* exhaust your rage !" 
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed. 
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. 

From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies. 
Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes ; 
Eliza's name along the camp he calls, 
•• Eliza ! " echoes through the canvas walls ; 
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps 

O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, 
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
Lo ! dead Eliza weltering in her blood ! 
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds. 
With open arms and sparkling eye he bounds : 
•' Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand, 
"Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand ; " 
Poor weeping balje, with bloody fingers pressed, 
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast ; 
•• Alas ! we both with cold and hunger quake — 
Why do you weepV — Mamma will soon awake." 
•■She'll wake no more!'' the hapless mourner 

cried. [sighed ; 

Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands and 
Stretched on the ground, a while entranced he lay, 
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 


And thon upsprung with wild convulsive start, 

And all tlie father kindled in his heart ; 

"O heavens!" he cried, " mj' first rash vow 

forgive ; 
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live ! " 
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest. 
And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 
— The Loves of tlie Plants. 


Roll on, ye stars, exult in youthful prime, 

Mark with bright curves the printless steps of 

time : 
Near and more near your beamy cars approach, 
And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach ; 
Flowers of tlie sky ! ye too to age must yield, 
Frail as your silken sisters of the field ! 
Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, 
Suns sink on suns, and systems, systems crush, 
Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall. 
And death, and night, and chaos mingle all ! 
Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, 
Inmiortal nature lifts her changeful form. 
Mounts from her funeral pyre on svings of flame, 
And soars and shines, another and the same I 
— The Loves of the Plants. 

D'AUBIGNE, J. H. Merle. See Merle 


DAUDET, Alphonse, a French novelist, 
born at Nimes, May 13, 1840. He was sent to 
the lyceum at Lyons, and when sixteen years 
old, became an usher in a school at Alais. 
In 1857 he accompanied his brother Ernest to 
Paris, taking with him a volume of poetry, 
Les AmoK reuses, which was published in 1858, 
and led to his employment by Figaro and 
other new'spapers. From 1861 to 1865, he was 
private secretary to the Due de Morny. Dur- 
ing this time he published fi poem. La Double 
Conversion (1861), and Le Roman da Cliap- 
eron Rouge (1863), a collection of articles pre- 


viously contributed to Figaro. He also 
wrote, in conjunction with M. Ernest Lepine, 
two successful dramas, La Derniere Idole, 
and LCEillet Blanc. Three later pieces, 
U Arlesienne, Le Sacrifice, and Lise Tavem- 
er (1872), were unsuccessful on the stage, and, 
disgusted with their fate, Daudet, who had 
intended to make a comedy of Fromont 
Jeune et Risler Aine, turned it into a novel. 
His success was already assured by Le Petit 
Chose, Tartarin de Tarascon, Les Femmes d' 
Artistes, Lettres de moii Moulin, and Jack, 
the last named novel being published in 1873. 
Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine appeared in 
1874, and was crowned the next year by 
the French Academy. It brought its author 
both fame and money. This novel was suc- 
ceeded by Les Contes Choisis (1877), Le Na- 
hab, Mceurs Parisiennes (1879), Causeries du 
Lundi, Robert Helmont, Les Rois en Exit 
(1879), Numa Roumestan (1880) and L' Evan- 
geliste (1882). 


Lame from her infancy, in consequence of an 
accident that had in no way lessened the beauty 
of lier refined face Desiree had acquired, in conse- 
quence of her enforced inunobiUty, a certain high- 
bi-ed pallor, and her industry was of such a nature 
that the natural beauty of her white hands was 
uninjured. Her beautiful hair was always care- 
fully arranged, and she passed her days buried in 
a large arm-chair, before a table that was covered 
with fashion-plates and birds of all tints, finding 
some compensation in the elegance of her employ- 
ment for the poverty and anxiety of her life. She 
knew that all these little wings would glitter at 
Parisian /efes, and, by the fashion in which she 
would arrange her birds and her beetles, it was 
easy to divine her thoughts. On her sad and 
weary days the wings were widely spread, as if 
eager for a flight, fast and furious enough to bear 
the little creature far away fi-om tliis poor abode, 


and petty cares and trials. At other times, when 
she was happy, the tiny things tliemselves looked 
radiant, like a very caprice of fashion. 

Happy or unliappy. Desiree toiled on with un- 
flagging energy : from sunrise until far into the 
night the table was piled with work. When day- 
light was gone, and the bell of the factory sound- 
ed its dismissal, Madame Dolobelle lighted her 
lamp, and, after a light repast, the two resumed 
their labors. 

The indefatigable women had but one aim — one 
fixed idea in life — and this was the dramatic suc- 
cess of Dolobelle. From the unfortunate day that 
he had left a provincial tlieatre, to play comedy 
in Paris, Dolobelle had expected some manager, 
cleverer and less ignorant than others, to discover 
his genius and offer him a position worthy of his 
talents. Perhaps, in the beginning, Dolobelle 
might have found some employment in a third- 
rate theatre, but to such an idea he would not con- 
descend to listen. He preferred, he said, " to 
wait and to struggle ! " And shall we show our read- 
ers how he struggled ? He passed his mornings in 
his chamber — often in his bed — rehearsing his for- 
mer roles, and his wife and daughter shuddered 
with terror as they heard some tragic speech loudly 
declaimed. After a late breakfast the actor sallied 
forth, well brushed and perfumed, and wandered 
up and down the boulevards until niglit, his hat a 
Uttle on one side, and a toothpick between his lips. 
The matter of costume he regarded as of the 
highest importance. What manager, he asked, 
would engage him were he shabbily dressed and 
unshaven ? So his womenkind watched carefully 
that he lacked nothing, and you may imagine how 
many beetles and humming-biids they mounted 
daily to keep him in this resplendent condition. 

But the comedian thought it all right. In his 
opinion the privations and toil of his wife and 
daughter were so many sacrifices, not made for 
him, but laid on the altar of the unknown divin- 
ity, the coming manager. 

Between the Dolobelle household and the Chebe 
there was a certain similarity of position, but it 


was brighter and gayer witli the Dolo')elles, for 
theu" holies and faith opened to them u possible 
future, while the Chebes knew that for them there 
could be no amelioration of their lot ; then, Mad- 
ame Chebe no longer believed in her husband, 
while her neighbor had never (loul)ted hers. And 
yet for years and years Dolobelle had interviewed 
all the dramatists of the great city, had waited on 
one manager after another, but had never suc- 
ceeded in obtaining an engagement. A friend 
had succeeded in procuring iiis appointment as 
steward of a fashionable club, where good manners 
are an essential — and Heaven knows the actor 
had those ; but all such propositions Dolobelle re- 
ceived with an heroic denial. " I have no right 
to bid farewell to the theatre." said the great man. 

From the lips of this poor fellow, whose feet 
had not trod the boards for many a long year, 
such words were irresistibly comic : but. after a 
glance at the pale wife and paler daughter, one 
lost all desire to smile ; and to hear one or the 
other say, as they twisted the steel wire of their 
birds, "No, no, M. Dolobelle has no right to re- 
relinquish the theatre,'' was enough to bring tears 
to one's eyes. 

Happy man ! idolized in his own home, saluted 
respectfully by the neighbors when he appeared 
in the street — for Parisians have an extraordinary 
predilection for the theatre, and a great regard 
for any one however remotely connected with it. 
And yet this great man contentedly went every 
Saturday evening to a milliner in La Rue Saint- 
Denis, a huge paper box under his arm, to carry 
home the work of his wife and daughter. Even 
in executing this commission his manners and 
costume were so irreproachable that the young 
lady whose duty it was to receive him found it 
extremely embarrassing to hand him the week's 
wages, so laboriously earned and so small in 
amount. On these evenings the actor did not 
dine at home ; the ladies never looked for him ; 
his excuse was alwaj's ready : he had met an old 
friend and invited him to dinner. He brought 
home the remainder of the money, to be sure ; and 


sometimes a bouquet to Desiree, or a little gift to 
his wife. " A mere nothing," he said loftily. 

Thus you understand how, notwithstanding the 
industry and the courage of these two women, 
and the fact that, though their labors were com- 
paratively lucrative, they were often cramped for 
money, particularly at certain seasons of the year, 
wlien the gay world had left Paris, and their 
particular branch of industry languished. 

Fortunately Risler was near at hand, and always 
ready to serve his friends. William Risler, the 
third tenant on that floor, resided there with his 
younger brother Franz, younger by fifteen years 
than himself. The two were natives of Switzer- 
land, and their tall, manly forms and fresh com- 
plexions seemed to lend some of their own vitality 
to the dark and dreary house. The eldest was de- 
signer to tiie Fromont manufactory, and paid his 
brother's expenses at college. When William 
first arrived in Paris, a stranger, and ignorant of 
the ways of cities, he gladly availed himself of the 
kind offers of assistance made to him by his new 
neighbors, Madame Chebe and the Dolobelles. 
The}- gave him advice and recommended their 
own tradespeople, and altogether were invaluable 
to him. In a few months they all became one 
family. . . . 

In each one of these three humble homes 
Sidonie Chebe was always welcome and equally 
at ease. At any hour of the day she would rush 
into the Dolobelles' room, perch herself on the 
arm of Desiree's chair, and watch the rapid move- 
ments of the pale girl's fingers. When tired of 
this, the child would pounce on some discarded 
beetle — one which had lost a wing on its long 
voyage, or a humming-bird whose feathers were 
hopelessly damaged ; such being always preserved 
for her use. Already more coquettish than play- 
ful, the little girl would arrange them in her clus- 
tering curls, while Desiree and her mother smiled 
to see her standing on tiptoe before the old tar- 
nished mirror. 

When she had studied herself sufiiciently, Si- 
donie, craving more admiration, would gravely go 


and knock at the Rislers' door. During the day 
only Franz was there, busj* over his books at his 
table by tlie window. Sidonie, holding her head 
very stiffly, lest )ier tiara should be disarranged, 
appeared on tlie threslu>ld. Farewell to study ! 
Everytliing must be abandoned to do honor to 
this princess from fairy-land, who came, crowned 
with shining jewels, to pay him a visit. It was 
droll enough to see this tall, overgrown youth ab- 
sorbed by this eight-year-old girl, yielding to her 
caprices and whims : so that later, when he be- 
came madly in love with her, no one could fix the 
date when his passion began. — Fromont Jeiine et 
Risler Aim. 


One night Desiree awoke in a singular state ; 
but the physician had found her. some liours be- 
fore, very uuith better — with her fever all gone. 
He did not attempt to account for the change, nor 
did he say that the improvement was more than 
temporary. " Let us wait," he said, gravely, hop- 
ing that it might be one of those singular efforts 
made by Nature and jouth. Had he looked under 
Desiree's pillow, he would have foimd a letter post- 
marked " Cairo " — four pages signed by Franz — 
fom* pages of confession and explanation. . . , 

Had that letter reached Zizi but a few days ear- 
lier ! Now all its tenderness was like food brought 
too late to a man dying of hunger : he sees it 
smeUs it, but cannot swallow it. Over and over 
again the sick girl read this letter. She drew^ it 
from the envelope, kissed it lovingly, and even 
through her closed lids, saw its everj- word, and 
the color of the stamp. Franz had not forgotten 
her ! and she fell asleep, as if her head had been 
on his shoulder. Suddenly she awoke, and, as we 
said before, in a most extraordinary state; she 
felt all nerves, and yet as if she held on to life 
with but the slenderest thread. It was night, and 
the room in which she lay was in shadow. The 
lamp, half turned down, lighted only the scattered 
work-table, and poor Madame Dolobelle's sleeping 
face. Desiree's whole past came back to her : for- 


gotten incidents of her childhood ; scenes that, at 
the time, she had not understood ; words heard as 
in a dream — all returned. The child was be^^'il- 
dered, but not teiTified. She did not know that, 
very often, death is heralded by just such excessive 
excitement of sleeping faculties. 

She saw her father through the open door. Her 
mother lay back in her chair, utterlj- worn out, 
and all the traces of years of misery and of toil 
were visible on her worn face. During the day 
they were, in a measure, masked by the will and 
by constant occupation : but sleep brought them 
out. The deep wrinkles and reddened eyelids, 
the scanty hair — already white on the temples — 
were all to be seen, and Desiree saw them all. 
How she longed for strength and power to kiss 
away all those wrinkles ! Dolobelle offered the 
strongest possible contrast. With a napkin thrown 
over his knee, he sat eating his supper, and at the 
same time reading his newspaper. For the first 
time in her life, Desiree noticed this contrast be- 
tween her father and mother : her mother in her 
Gcanty black dress, thin and haggard ; her father, 
wearing a new coat, hale and hearty : and she un- 
derstood the difference in their lives and natures. 
The atmosphere of habit, which weakens the 
vision of children, vanished for her; she 
judged her parents as if she were not their daugh- 
ter. What would become of her mother when 
she was gone? Would she patiently toil on, until 
worn out, and then would her selfish companion, 
too indolent to work himself, permit her to starve? 
And j-et he was not cruel ; he was only absorbed 
in himself and in his futile ambition. Should she 
try to arouse him? Should she trj- to tear away 
the thick bandage with which her father had for 
so many yeai-s covered his eyes? It was only a 
loving hand like her own that could attempt such 
a delicate operation. She alone had the right to say 
to him : '• Give up these foolish dreams of a theat- 
rical career. Work, through the day, and, if it 
must be, part of the night too, at some honest 
trade." Then, as if she were bidden to hasten, by 


some invisible lips, she summoned all her courage, 
and called him softly : 

"Papa, papa !" 

At the sound of her voice, the old actor luuried 
to her side. He had been at tlie first representa- 
tion of a new plav, and had couie away enchanted 
and excited. He entered liis daughter's room 
with a beaming face, and a camellia in his button- 

"Not asleep yet, Zizi?" And his words were 
said so liglitly that they resoundetl strangely in that 
sad and silent room. Desiree made a sign to him 
to be quiet, and jwinted to her sleeping mother. 

"Come here, I want to speak to you," she 
whispered. Her voice trembled, and lier widely- 
opened eyes had a strange, far-away look. Some- 
what startled, he bent over her, with his camellia 
in his hand. 

' ' What is it, my dear ? Do you feel worse ? " 

Desiree shook her head, but beckoned him to 
come nearer ; she laid her liot hand on his, and 
whispered that she was ill, and had not long to 
live. "Then, papa, you will be alone with 
mamma. Do not tremble — I am not afraid for 
myself, but I dread lest mamma should not be 
strong enough to do everything. Look, how pale 
she is ! " 

The actor turned, and seemed astonished at the 
sad face he saw. "She has never been very 
strong," he said calmly. 

This selfish reply, and. above all, the tone in 
which it was made, confirmed Desiree in her in- 
tention. " What will become of you both when I 
am not here ? Yes, I know, you have great hopes 
and expectations, but they will never be realized. 
Dear father, 1 do not wish to hurt your feelings, 
but it seems to me that, at your age, with your 
intelligence, you ought to be doing something. 

Mr. Risler, I am sure, would " 

She spoke slowly, choosing her words with 
care, and waiting a moment after each sentence ; 
but the actor did not yet grasp her meaning. He 
listened intently, with a vague consciousness that ^ 


he was being accused of somethiDg ; but of what, 
he had no idea. 

" I think." continued Desiree timidly, " that it 
w^ould be far vviser to relinijuish " 


She stopped, astonished at the effect of her 
words ; for tears, real tears, rose to her father's 
eyes. He understood her now. Of the only two 
admirers left to him by a cruel fate, one had now 
deserted him ! His child no longer believed in 
him ! It was not possible ! Before the mute en- 
treaty of his gaze, Desiree's courage fled ; be- 
sides, her strength was exhausted. 

Slie murmured, "Give up — give up — " her head 
fell back on her pillows, and she died, without 
liaving dared to say what she wished him to give 
up. — Fromont Jevne et Rislcr Aine. 


In the vavSt theatre enlarged into an ellipse, and 
outlining a large patch of blue, thousands of faces 
were pressed close together on the many rows of 
benches, bright eyes forming luminous points of 
liglit which mingled with the varied reflections 
and brilliancy of festal toilets and picturesque cos- 
tumes. From thence, as from a huge vat, as- 
cended joyous shouts, ringing voices and trumpets, 
volatilized, as it were, by the intense light of the 
sun. Though hardly distinct on the lower steps, 
which were dim and dusty with sand and many 
breaths, these sounds were accentuated when they 
were detached, and ascended into the pure air. 

Above all rose most distinctly the cry of vend- 
ers of milk-biscuit, bearing from step to step 
their baskets draped with white linen — " Li pau 
ou la, li pau ou la." The venders of fresh water, 
balancing their green and varnished jugs, made 
one thirsty when listening to their gulping, "L' 
aigo es fresco, quau \ oil beure ? " " The water is 
fresh, who wishes to drink?" Then, at the very 
top, children running and playing on the crest of 
the arena crowned this grand hubbub with sharp 
sounds as high as martinets soar in tlie kingdona 
of birds. Over all what an admirable play of 


light, when, the day advancing, the sun turned 
slowly around the vast ampliitheatre as on the 
disk of a sun-dial, driving back and crowding into 
the zone of the shadow tlie people, who left vacant 
the places most exposed to the strong heat, spaces 
of reddish slabs separated by dried grasses and 
blackened by successive conflagrations ! At times 
on the upper tiers a stone becoming loosened roll- 
ed from tier to tier amid cries of terror, and 
crowding of the people, as if the wliole circle was 
crumbling : then there was a rapid movement on 
the seats, like the assault of a cliff by the sea in its 
fury ; for among that exuberant, impressionable 
race, effect is never proportionate to the cause, 
which is magnified by tlieir perceptions and im- 
agination. Thus peopled and animated, the ruins 
seemed to be alive again, and lost tlieir appear- 
ance of a cicerone's show-building. When look- 
ing at it one had the sensation given by a strophe 
of Pindar recited by a modern Atlienian, wliich is 
a dead language revived witliout a cold scholastic 
character. This sky so pure, this sun like molten 
silver ; tliese Latin intonations preserved here and 
there, especially in the small places, in the Pro- 
vencal idiom ; the attitudes of some standing in 
archwaj's with motionless poses, which in the 
glimmering air seemed antique and almost like 
the work of a sculptor, and were a type of the 
place, their heads appearing as if struck off on 
medals ; the short arched nose, the broad shaven 
cheeks, and the turned-up chin of Roumestan — 
all together completed the illusion of a Roman 
spectacle, even to the lowing of Landaise cows, 
which echoed through vaults from which for- 
merly lions and elephants came forth to combat. 
Thus when above the circle, empty and covered 
with sand, the very large black hole of the jwdi- 
um covered by a skylight opened, people expected 
to see wild beasts leap fortli instead of the quiet 
and rural procession of beasts and peoi)Ie crowned 
at the fair. — Numa Roumestan. 

DAUDET. Ernest, a French political and his- 
torical writer, and a novelist, born at Kimes, 


in 1837. He went to Paris in 1$^, and be- 
came a writer for Parisian and provincial 
newspapers. He was engaged to revise the 
reports of proceedings in the Corps Legisla- 
tif. About 1870 he became editor of the Es- 
tafette, and for two years (1874-6) was editor 
of the Journal Officiel. He is the author of 
many novels, among them, Therese (1859); 
Les Duperies de V Amour (1865); Aventures 
de Raymond Rocheray, Le Crime de Jean 
Malory, Jean le O-uetix, Marthe Varades, La 
Petite Soiur, Le Prince Pogmitzine, La Bar- 
onne Amalti, Une Femme du Monde, Un 
Martyr d' Amour, Le Roman de Delphine, 
Jourdain Coiqje-tetes, and La Succession 
Chavanet. Among his historical and politi- 
cal works are Les Journaux religieux et les 
Journalistes Catholiques (1860); La Trahison 
d' Emilie OUivier (1864); Diplomates et Hom- 
ines d' Etat contemporains : le Cardinal Con- 
salvi, 1800-1824 (1867) ; La Verite sur la Fu- 
sion (1873) ; Le Ministere de M. de Martignac, 
sa Vie politique et les dernieres Annees de la 
Restauration (1875); La Terreur Blanche 
(1878), and Souvenirs de la Presidence du 
Marechal Macmahon (1880). 


Hers is not a beauty resulting from regularity 
of feature, for this is wanting. Lovely as she is, 
her features, when critically examined, are not of 
that perfect symmetry so dear to painters and 
sculptors, and for which so-called beauties, like 
the Duchesse de Maugiron and Madame de Roche- 
brie are celebrated. The mouth is large : the nose 
a trifle too strong : the forehead a little too 
broad ; but you never notice these faults. They 
are lost in the brilliancy and beauty of eyes so 
clearly blue that they have almost a greenish tint. 
These eyes are large and full, with tawny lights, 
and veiled by long curling black lashes. Their ex- 
pression is one of fiery ardor and indomitable will. 


They transfigure the whole face — revealing an im- 
passioned soul unused to dissimulation and unable 
to overcome any emotion without betraying it. 
Rose and vermilion glow on the lips which are 
perhaps a trifle too full, but beautifully curved, 
and which open to reveal perfect teeth. Her hair, 
arranged in a shower of light curls upon her fore- 
head and temples, and then falling heavily, low at 
the back of the head, is of a warm, reddish, chest- 
nut tint, that contrasts charmingly with the deli- 
cate whiteness of her skin. Unconfined by the 
comb that is scarcely able to restrain the heavy 
golden waves, it would fall around her to her feet, 
enveloping her as with a mantle. Her face is ra- 
diant with the all-conquering charm of health and 
a pure proud youth. Her figure, whose graceful 
curves were revealed by a perfectly fitting dress, 
is tall i-ad beautifullj" developed. All those 
united charms make Mademoiselle de Mai^nelay a 
superior type of physical beauty, perfected and 
idealized by the liglit of a noble soul within. — 


The chateau of Saint-Guenole lifts its gray walls 
and massive towers from a wooded pronaontory 
that o\ erlooks the ban-en shores of the Bay of Au- 
dierne and the precipitous cliffs of Penmarch. 
Nowhere on the coast of Finis tere is there a wilder 
and more dreaded shore than this. The sea, fret- 
ted by multitudinous rocks and shoals, is never 
tranquil. On more peaceful shores he is content 
to kiss the shingle with his miu-muring waves ; 
here he dashes great frothing breakers against the 
steep cliffs ; and when angered by storms, the en- 
tire surface of the waters, from Brest to Cher- 
bourg, is lashed into a boUing fury of billow and 
foam. What bold warrior, what whimsical brain, 
what daring adventurer, far back in the Middle 
Ages, chose this spot on which to construct his 
dwelling? Only a passionate soul, the prey of 
violent emotions, would pitch his tent on this ex- 
tremity of the Old World, on the borders of this 
ocean which is never at rest, and in the midst of 


this wild, desolate, and convulsed landscape ; and 
unless the necessity of defence caused the erection 
of this fortress, whose grim and massive archi- 
tecture seems to have been copied from surround- 
ing objects, it can only be explained as the I'esult 
of a fierce paroxysm of misanthropy. — Henriette. 

liam, an English dramatist and poet, born in 
1605, died in 1668. His father kept the Ci'own 
Tavern at Oxford, where Shakespeare was 
accustomed to stopAvhen journeying between 
Stratford and London. He took much notice 
of the boy. of whom it was said that he was 
the actual father. The report seems to have 
had no credible foundation, although Daven- 
ant himself in after years appears to have 
favored it. He was entered at one of the 
colleges, but left without taking his degree. 
He became page to the Duchess of Richmond, 
and afterwards to Lord Brooke. He mani- 
fested marked literary talent, and as early as 
1628 was known by his masques, which were 
played at Court by the nobility. Upon the 
death of Ben Jonson, in 1637, Davenant was 
made poet laureate. During the civil war he 
was arrested as a royalist, but effected his 
escajie to France. He returned to England 
with some forces for the relief of the king, 
and in 1643, at the siege of Gloucester, re- 
ceived the honor of knighthood. In 1651 he 
set sail, with some French artisans, for Vir- 
ginia, but was captured by a Parliamentary 
cruiser, and was thrown into prison, where 
he remained two years; being released, it is 
said, through the influence of Milton, a kind- 
ness which he afterwards repaid in kind. 
After the Restoration Davenant gathered a 
company of comedians, and became manager 
of the Court Theatre, for which he wrote 
several dramatic pieces. His son, Charles 
Davenant (1656-1714) became a Doctor of 


Civil Law, and sat in several Parliaments. 
While young he wrote Circe, a tragedy, in 
which he himself acted. He also wrote 
several political and commercial treatises, a 
collection of which, in five volumes, was puh- 
lished in 1771. Sir William Davenant's works, 
which were published by his widow in 1673, 
consist of several dramas, the best of which 
is The Siege of Rhodes, masques, Gondihert 
an epic poem, and numerous occasional 
verses. Gondihert, was highly praised by 
Waller and Cowley. 


To Astragon, Heaven for succession gave 
One only pledge, and Birtha was lier name ; 

Whose mother slept where flowers grew on her 
And she succeeded her in face and fame. 

Her beauty princes diu-st not liope to use, 
Unless. Uke poets, for their morning theme ; 

And her mind's beauty they would rather choose, 
Which did the light in beauty's lanthorn seem. 

She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone 
With untaught looks, and an unpractised heait; 

Her nets, the most pr-epared could never shun, 
For Nature spread them in the scorn of Art. 

She never liad in busy cities been. 

Ne'er warmed with hopes, nor e'er allayed \vith 
fears ; 
Not seeing punishment, could guess uo sin ; 

And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 

But here lier father's precepts gave her skill. 
Which with incessant business filled the hours ; 

In spring she gathered blossoms for the still ; 
In autumn, berries : and in summer, flowers. 

And as kind Nature, with calm diligence, 
Her own free virtue silently employs, 

Whilst she unheard.does ripening growth dispense. 
So were her virtues busy without noise. 


Whilst her great mistress. Nature, thus she tends, 
The busy houseliold waits no less on her ; 

By secret law, each to her beauty bends, 
Though all her lowly mind to that prefer. 

Gracious and free she breaks upon them all 
With morning looks ; and they, when she does 

Devoutly at her dawn in homage fall. [eyes. 

And droop like flowers when evening shuts her 

— Oondihert. 


Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, 

To purify tlie air ; 
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse. 
And wakes the louder drum ; 

Expense of grief gains no remorse, 
When sorrow should be dumb. 

For I must go where lazy peace 
Will hide her drowsy head ; 

And, for the sport of kings increase 
The number of the dead. 

But first I '11 chide thy cruel theft ; 

Can I in war delight. 
Who, being of my heart bereft, 

Can have no heart to fight ? 

Thou knowest the sacred laws of old 
Ordained a thief, should pay. 

To quit him of liis theft, sevenfold 
What he had stolen away. 

Thy payment shall but double be ; 

Oh, then, with speed resign 
Mj' own seduced heart to me, 

Accompanied by thine. 


The lark now leaves his watery nest. 
And climbing shakes his dewy wings ; 


He takes this window for the east, 

And to implore your light he sings : 
Awake, awake, the moon will never rise, 
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes ! 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, 
The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; 

But still the lover wonders what they are 
Who look for day before his mistress wakes : 

Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn ! 

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. 

DAVIDSON, LucRETiA Maria (born in 1808, 
died in 1825), and Margaret Miller, (born in 
1823, died in 1838), American poets, and sis- 
ters, both born at Plattsburg, on Lake Cham- 
plain, in the State of New York. Both sisters 
manifested, at a very early age, decided 
poetical ability. A collection of the poems of 
Lucretia was published four years after her 
death, at the age of seventeen. This volume 
was cordially reviewed in the London Quar- 
terly Review by Southey, who says, " In our 
own language, except in the cases of Chatter- 
ton and Kirke White, we can call to mind no 
' instance of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a 
pursuit of intellectual advancement. In these 
poems there is enough of originality, enough 
of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, 
enough of growing power, to warrant any ex- 
pectations, however sanguine, which the 
patrons and the friends and parents of the 
deceased could have formed." A new edition 
of her poems, with a Memoir by Miss Cathe- 
rine Sedgwick, appeared in 1844; and a more 
extended collection of her "Remains," in 
verse and prose, edited by M. Oliver David- 
son, was published in 1871. 


O that the eagle's wing were mine ! 
I 'd soar above the dreary earth 


I "d spread my wings, and rise to join 
The immortal fountain of my birth. 

For what is Joy 't How soon it fades, 

The childish vision of an liour I 
Though warm and l)rilliant ari^ its shades, 

"Tis but a frail and fleeting flower. 

And what is Hope ? It is a light 
Which leads us on, deluding ever, 

Till, lost amid the shades of night, 
We sink : and then it flies forever. 

And what are Honor, Glory, Fame, 

But Death's dark watchwords to the grave? 

The victim dies, and lo ! his name 
Is lost in Life's swift rollmg wave. 

And what are all the joys of life, 

But vanity, and toil, and woe? 
Wliat but a bitter cup of grief, 

With dregs of sin and death below? 

This world is but the flrst dark gate 

Unfolded to the waking soul ; 
But Deatli, unerring, led by Fate, 

Shall Heaven's bright jjortals backward roll. 

Then shall this unchained spirit fly 
On to the God who gave it life ; 

Rejoicing, as it soars on high. 
Released from danger, doubt, and strife. 

There will it pour its anthems forth. 
Bending before its Maker's throne — 

The great I Am, who gave it birth. 
The Almighty God. the dread Unknown. 


I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
And fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
I 'm sure that I never saw any poetry sweeter. 
It seemed that a law had been recently made 
That a tax on old bacheloi"s' pates should be laid ; 


And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
The tax was as large as a man could wellcaiTv. 
The bachelorstgnimbled, and said 'twas no use, 
'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse, 
And declared tliat, to save their own heart's blood 

from spilling. 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 

But the rulers determined them to pursue. 
So they set the old bachelors up at vendue. 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow. 
And to call out to all he might meet on liis way, 
" Ho ! forty old baclielors sold here to-day I " 

And presently all the old maids in the town. 
Each in lier very best boimet and gown. 
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale. 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. — 
The auctioneer then his lalwr began, 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man : 
' ' How much for a bachelor ? Who wants to 

buy ? '" 
In a twink every maiden responded, " I ! I ! " — 
In short, at a highly extravagant price. 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice ; 
And forty old maidens — some younger, some 

older — 
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her 



Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth ! 
Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth : 
Though many a lonely hour thj' whisperings low 
Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe. 

Or "mid the happy hours which joyful flew, 
Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true; 
Or when the task employed my infant mind. 
Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind ; 

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee, 
When it had pointed, silently, '• Be free ! '" 
Thou wert my mentor through each passing year ; 
"Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near. 


And when the wings of Time unnoticed flew, 
I paused, reflected, turned to you : 
Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand, 
Pointing to Conscience, like a magic wand. , . . 

Friend of my youth ! ere from its mouldering clay 
M.v joyful spirit wings to heaven its way. 
Oh. may'st thou watch beside mj' aching head. 
And tell how f;ist Time flits witli feathered tread. 

The following, probably the last poem by 
Lucretia Davidson, was written while con- 
fined to her bed, during her last illness. It 
was left unfinished, and in the midst of a 


There is a something which I dread ; 

It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness : 

'Tis not the dread of death ; 'tis more — 
It is the dread of madness. 

O ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
Forgetful of their feverish course ; 

May this hot brain, which, burning, glows 
"With all its fiery wliirlpool's force. 

Be cold, and motionless, and stiU, 

A tenant of its lowly bed ; 
But let not dark delirium steal 

Margaret Davidson was barely two years 
old when Lucretia died ; but she cherished a 
vivid recollection of her sister, and as she 
grew up fancied that she still held intimate 
communion with her. She died before she 
had entered her sixteenth year. A collection 
of her Poetical JRemains, with a Memoir by 
Washington Irving, was published in 1841. 


" The further we have proceeded in our task," 
writes Irving, "the more has the intellectual 
beauty and, the seraphic purity of the little 
being we have attempted to commemorate 
broken upon us. To use one of her own ex- 
quisite expressions, she was ' a spirit of heav- 
en, fettered by the strong affections of earth.' 
The example of her sister was incessantly be- 
fore her ; and no better proof can be given of 
it than the following lines, which breath the 
heavenly aspirations of her pure young spirit, 
in strains to us quite unearthly. We may 
have read poetry more artificially perfect in 
its structure, but never any more truly divine 
in its inspiration : " 

My sister ! Witli that tlu-illing word 

What thoughts unuumbereil wildly spring ; 
What echoes in my heart are stirred. 

While thus I touch the trembling string. 

My sister ! ere this youtliful raind 
Could feel the value of tliine own ; 

Ere this infantine heart could bind. 
In its deep cell, one look, one tone, 

To glide along on memory's stream, 

And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee, 

Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream, 
Thy soul had struggled, and was free. 

My sister I with this mortal eye 

I ne'er shall see thy form again ; 
And never shall this mortal ear 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain. 

Yet fancy wild and glowing love 

Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 
Enwreathed with graces from above, 

And decked in lieaven's own fadeless hue. . . 

I cannot weep that thou art fled : 
Forever blends my soul with thine; 


Each tliought, by purer impulse led, 
Is soaring on to realms divine. . . . 

Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay ; 

For sin too pure, for eartli too bright ; 
And Death, who called thee hence away, 

Placed on his brow a gem of light. 

A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, 

Which gilds the memory of the dead, 
And pours its radiance on the grave. . . . 

I know that here my harp is mute, 
And quenched the bright poetic fire ; 

Yet still I l)on(l my ear, to catch 
The hymnings of thy seraph lyre : 

Oh ! if this partial converse now 

So joyous to my heart can be, 
How must tlie streams of rapture flow 

When both are chainless, both are free ! . . . . 

Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 

I must not, dare not, dwell on thee : 
My soul, immersed in life's dark stream. 

Is far too earthly to be free. 

Though heavens bright portal were unclosed, 
And angels wooed me from on high. 

Too much I fear my slii-inking soul 
Would cast on earth its longing eye. 

Teach me to fill my place below, 
That I may dwell with thee above ; 

To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 
And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 

Lenore, the longest of Margaret Davidson's 
poems, containing nearly 2,000 lines, is dedi- 
cated "To the Spirit of my Sister Lucretia." 


O thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 
Pure spirit of my Sister, be thou near : 


And while I touch tliis hallowed harp of thine, 
Bend from the skies, sweet Sister, bend and 


For thee I pour this unaffected lay ; 
To thee these simple numbers all belong : 

For though thine earthly form has passed ^way, 
Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 

Take then this feeble tribute ! 'tis thine own ; 

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings 
Arouse to harmony each buried tone, [o'er, 

And bid its wakened music sleep no more. 

Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
Hung o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest ; 

But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
One answering echo lingered in my breast. 

O thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near. 
Accept these lines, unworthy thougli they be, 

Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine. 
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee. 


[Written at the age of twelve.] 
Bend down from thy chariot, O beautiful Spring ! 
Unfold, like a standard, thy radiant wing, 
And beauty and joy in thy rosy path bring ! 
We long for thy coming, sweet goddess of love ! 
We watch for thy smile in the pure sky above. 
And we sigh for the hour when the wood-birds 

shall sing. 
And nature shall welcome thee, beautiful Spring. 
How the lone heai-t will bound as thy presence 

draws near, [sphere ; 

As if borne from this world to some lovelier 
How the fond soul to meet thee in raptm-es shall 

rise, [skies. 

When thy first blush has tinted the earth and the 

Oh, send thy soft breath on the icy-bound stream, 
'Twill vanish, 'twill melt, like the forms in a 

dream ; 
Released from its chains, like a child in its glee, 
It will flow on in its beauty, all sparkling and 

free : 


It will spring on in its jo5\ like a bird on the wing, 
And hail thee with music, O beautiful Spring ! 
But tread with thy foot on the snow-covered plain. 
And verdure and l)eauty shall smile in thy train. 
Oidy whisper one word withthj' seraph-like voice, 
And nature to hear the sweet sound shall rejoice. 

O Spring I lovely goddess ! what form can compare 
With thine, so resplendent, so glowing, so fair? 
What sunbeam so briglit as thine own smiling eye, 
At whose glance the dark spirits of Winter do fly? 
A garland of roses is twined round thy brow ; 
Thy cheek like the pale blush of evening doth 

glow ; 
A mantle of green o'er thj' soft form is spread. 
And the zephyr's light wing gently plays round 

thy head. 

Oh, could I but mount on the eagle's dark wing, 
And rest ever beside thee. Spring, beautiful 

Spring ! 
Methinks I beliold thee ; I hear thy soft voice ; 
And, in fulness of heart, I rejoice, I rejoice ! 
But the cold wind is moaning, the drear snow 

doth fall. [call.— 

And nought but the shrieking blast echoes my 
Oh, heed the frail offering an infant can bring ! 
Oh, grant my petition. Spring, beautiful Spring ! 


How calm, how beautiful a scene is this, 

When nature, waking from her silent sleep, 

Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy ; 

When earth and sky and air are glowing all 

With gaiety and life : and pensive shades 

Of morning lovliness are cast around. — 

The purjjle clouds, so streaked with crimson light. 

Bespeak the coming of majestic Day ; 

Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still. 

While ever and anon a golden beam 

Seems darting out its radiance. — 

Herald of Day ! where is that mighty form 

Which clothes you all in splendor, and around 

Your colorless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 

Of heaven ? — He corneth from his gorgeous couch. 

And gilds the bosom of the glowing East. 



Hark to the house-clock's measured chime, 

As it cries to the startled ear, 
"A dirge for the soul of departing tivfie, 

A requiem for the Year!'" 

Thou art passing away to the mighty Past, 

Where thy countless bretliren sleep 
Till the great Archangel's trumpet blast 

Shall waken land and deep. 

Oh, the lovely and beautiful things th3,t lie 

On thy cc^ld and motionless breast ! 
Oh, the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the sighs, 

Departing with thee to their rest ! . . . . 

Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete, 

And fulfilled the Creator's behest ; 
Then adieu to thee, year of our son-ows and joys, 

And peaceful and long be thy rest. 

Fai-ewell ! for thy truth-written record is full. 
And the page weeps for sorrow and crime. 

Farewell ! for the leaf hath shut down on the past. 
And concealed the dark annals of time. 

The hell! it hath ceased with its iron tongue 

To ring on the startled ear : 
Tlie dirge o'er the grave of the lost one is rung ; — 

All hail to the new-born Year. 

All hail to the new-born year ! 

To the child of hope and fear ! 

He comes on his car of state, 

And weaves our web of fate ; 
And he opens his robe to receive us all, 
And we live or die and we rise or fall, 

In the arms of the new-born Year ! 

Hope ! spread thy soaring wings : 

Look on the boundless sea. 
And trace thy bright and beautiful things 
On the veil of the great To Be. 

Build palaces broad as the sky, 
And store them with treasures of light ; 


Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye; 
And illumine the darkness of night. 

We are gliding fast from the buried Year, 

And tlie Present is no more ; 
But, Hope, wo will borrow thy sparkling gear, 

And shroud the Future o'er. 

Our tears and sighs shall sleep 

In tlie grave of the silent Past ; 
We will raise up flowers, nor weep 

That the air-hues may not last. 

We will dream our dreams of joy : — 
Ah, Fear ! wliy darken the scene ? 

Why sprinkle that ominous tear 
My l^eautiful visions between ! 

Hath not Sorrow swift wings of her own, 
Tliat thou must assist in her flight? 

Is not daylight too rapidly gone, 
That thou must urge onward the night? 

Ah ! leave me to Fancy, to Hope. 

For Grief will too quickly be here ; 
Ah ! leave me to shadow forth figures of light 

In the mystical robe of the Year. 

'Tis true they may never assume 
The substance of pleasure — the Real ; 

But, believe me, our purest of joy 
Consists in the vague — the Ideal. 

Then away to the darksome cave, 
Witli thy sisters — the Sigh and the Tear ; 

We will- drink, in the crystal wave, 
The health of tlie new-bom Year. 

DAVIES, Sir John, an English lawyer and 
poet, bom in 1570. died in 1626. He studied 
at Oxford, and afterwards entered the Middle 
Temple, London, to pi-osecute the study of 
law, but was in l.'iOS expelled from the Society 
in consequence of an affra\' in which he had 
become involved. Subsequently he rose to a 
high position in his profession. In 1703, upon 

SiK JOHx\ DA VIES. 107 

the accessio'ii of James I. he was sent to Ire- 
land as Solicitor-general, and received the 
honor of knighthood. He represented the 
County oL Fermanagh in the Irish Parliament, 
of which he was chosen Speaker. He after- 
wards sat in the English Pai-liauient; and in 
1626 was appointed Lord Chief Justice of 
England, but died suddenly before entering 
upon the duties of this office. In 1612 he put 
forth a work in prose, entitled A Discourse 
of the True Reasons ivhy Ireland has never 
been entirely subdued. His poems were all 
written before ho had reached middle age. 
One of these poems, entitled Orchestra, or a 
Poem on Dancing, contains several happy 
stanzas; such as the following: 


And thou, sweet Music, Dancing's only life, 

The ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech, 
Loadstone of fellowship, charming rod of strife, 

The soft mind's paradise, the sick mind's leech, 

With thine own tongue thou trees and stones can 


That when the air doth dance her finest measiu-e. 

Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet 


Lastly, where keep the winds their revelry. 

Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hays, 
But in the airs' irauslucent gaUery ? 
"Where she hei^self is turned a hundred ways. 
While with those maskers wantonly she plays ; 
Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace, 
As two at once encumber not the place. 


For lo. the sea that fleets about the land, 
And like a girdle clips her solid waist, 
3Iusic and measure both doth understand ; 
For his great crystal eye is always cast 
Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast ; 
And as she danceth in her pallid sphere 
So danceth be about the centre here. 


Sometimes his proud green waves in order set, 

One after other flow into the shore, 
Which when they have with many kisses wet, 
They ebb away in order as before ; 
And to make known his courtly love the more, 
He oft doth lay aside his three-forked mace, 
And with his arms the timorous earth embrace. 

Sir John Davies's most important poem is 
the Nosce Teipsum ("Know Thyself"), a 
Poem on the Soul of Man and the hnniortality 
thereof, first pubUshed in the author's twenty- 
ninth year (1599). 


I know my body 's of so frail a kind, 
As force without, fevers within, can kill ; 

I know the heavenly nature of my mind ; 
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will, 

I know my soul hath power to know all things. 
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ; 

I know I 'm one of Nature's little kings, 
Yet to the least and vilest thing am thrall. 

1 know my life 's a pain, and but a span ; 

I know my sense is mocked in everything ; 
And — to conclude — I know myself a Man : 

Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. 

All moving things to other things do move 
Of the same kind, which shews their nature 
such ; 
So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above. 
Till both their proper elements do touch. 

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth 
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins. 

From out her womb at last doth take a birth. 
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains : 

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land, 
From whose soft side she first did issue make ; 


She tastes all places, turns to every hand, 
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake. 

Yet nature So her streams doth lead and carry 
As that her course doth make no final stay, 

Till she herself unto the sea doth marry. 
Within whose watery bosom first she lay. 

E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould, 
The Spirit of God doth secretly infuse, 

Because at first she doth the earth behold. 
And only this material world she views. 

At first her mother-earth she holdeth dear, 
And doth embrace the world and worldly things ; 

She flies close by the ground, and hovers here, 
And mounts not up with her celestial wings ; 

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with lier heavenly nature doth agree ; 

She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought. 
She cannot in this world contented be. 

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth. 
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? 

Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health, 
Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind ? 

Then, as a bee which among weeds doth fall. 
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh 
and gay. 

She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all, 
But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away. 

So, when the soul finds here no true content. 
And, like Noahs dove, can no sure footing take. 

She doth retui-n from whence she first was sent, 
And flies to him that first her wings did make. 

DAVIS, Andrew Jackson, an American 
"spiritualist," born in Orange County, New 
York, in 1826. In 1843, while apprentice to a 
shoemaker, he developed, as it is claimed, re- 
markable clairvoyant powers, and while in a 
state of magnetic trance discoursed fluently 


upon scientific and philosophical subjects, and 
gave medical eliagnoses and prescriptions. In 
1845 he dictated to an amanuensis a book en- 
titled The Principles of Nature, her Divine 
Revelations, which by many was held to be 
"part of a series of systematic impostures ; " 
while, on the other hand, a scholar no less 
eminent than Prof. George Bush wrote of it: 
" Taken as a whole, the woi'k is a profound 
and elaborate discussion of the Philosophy of 
the Universe ; and for grandeur of conception, 
soundness of principle, clearness of illustra- 
tion, order of arrangement, and encycloi)edi- 
cal range of subjects, I know of no work of 
any single mind that will bear away from it 
the palm."— After a while Mr. Davis ceased 
to submit himself to magnetic manipulations, 
but wrote several works, all of which he 
averred to have been produced under the in- 
fluence of invisible spirits. His works com- 
prise more than twenty volumes, the princi- 
pal of which are: Tlie Principles of Nature; 
The Great Harmonia (4 vols. ) ; The Pene- 
tralia; The Present Age and the Inner Life; 
The Magic Staff (an autobiography) ; Morn- 
ing Lectures; Arbula; Tale of a Physician; 
and A Stellar Key to the Summer Land, 
which is a kind of summary of his Philoso- 
phy of the Universe. 


Tlie first goings-forth or out-birtlis from the 
great celestial Centre are essential oceans of mat- 
ter. These, after due elaboratiou or gestation, 
give birth to suns, and become cognizible to the 
outward senses of man. These suns become cen- 
tres, or mothers, from which earths are born, with 
all the elements of matter, and each minutest par- 
ticle infused with the vivifying, vitalizing spirit 
of the parent Formator. The Essences of heat or 
fire, electricity, etherium. magnetism, are all the 
natural or outward manifestations of tlie product- 


ive energy, the vitalizing Cause of all existences. 
It pervades all substances, and animates all forms. 

The order of progression of solid matter is from 
the lower to the higher, from the crude to the re- 
fined, from the simple to the complicated, from 
the imperfect to the perfect — but in distinct de- 
grees or congeries. That is, the lower inust first 
be developed, to elaborate the materials and prepare 
the way for tlie higher. Thus, after the sun gave 
birth to the earth— and the same of all the other 
planets — by the action of the vitality within the 
particles of matter, and its constant emanation in 
the form of heat, light, electricity, etc., first the 
great Central spliei-e to the sun, and thence to the 
earth, acting upon the granite and other rocks, 
with the atmosphere, the water, and other com- 
pound and simple elements, new compounds were 
formed, possessing the vital principle in sufficient 
quantities to give definite forms — as crystallization, 
organization, motion, life, sensation, intelligence : 
the last being the highest or ultimate attribute of 
production on our earth, and possessed or reached 
to perfection only by Man. 

A glance at the progress of matter in the pro- 
duction of our earth and its inhabitants will serve 
as an illustration of tlie same process and progress 
of worlds in tlie vast expanse of the univeree. 
that ax-e perpetually and incessantly being brought 
into existence, and ultimating the grand object of 
the whole : namely, to develope and perfect indi- 
vidualizetl, self-conscious, ever-existing, immor- 
tal spirits that shall be in the " image and like- 
ness" of the Central Cause, and dwell forever in 
the Summer Spheres of space. . . . 

The ever-present and ever-active principle of vi- 
tality and Creative Energy, acting and reacting 
upon the materials of our globe, started the king- 
doms of Nature, which have and will ever con- 
tinue to progress — from the simple to the more 
complicated vegetable forms ; animalculce, infu- 
sia, i-adiata, mollusca, vertebrata. and Man as the 
Ultimate. The lowest and imperfect first, and the 
more complex and perfect after, in regular pro- 


gression, but in distinct degrees : each new type 
being dependent iipon all that preceded it for its 
existence, but yet distinct and different from its 

Each type of the endless variety of inorganic 
and organized sul)stances is but a link in tlie great 
chain of cause and effect ; and each type or species 
is so marked and distinct as easily to be distin- 
guished, and each variety and unit}' of the human 
species is so indelibly stamjjed with its own per- 
fected individuality as to be recognized from the 
mjriads of the same species. Thus fixed, unvary- 
ing, and universal laws of the Father govern and 
regulate all his universe. Througliout all the 
ramifications of the spiritual, physical, and celes- 
tial, eternal unity, order, and harmony reigns ; 
conception, development, progression, and per- 
fection mark all things, and all point with irre- 
sistible force of reason and demonstration to the 
immortality of the Spirit. . . . 

All organic forms below man not only produce 
their own like, but the substance of their material 
forms mingles with i)reviously-forme(l compounds 
to produce a new and distinct type superior to it- 
self. But the human type has no superior devel- 
opment, and there is no retrogression in the works 
of Nature. Each new unfolding is superior to the 
preceding. Man, then, is destined for other and 
higher Spheres. In these Spheres, or new states 
of existence, man's spirit must present not only 
an " image and likeness " of Nature and God. but a 
consciousness of identity and individual Selfhood. 
Feeling and knowing this, he should so Live while 
in this rudimentar}- and preparatory state of ex- 
istence that all his physical, intellectual, moral, 
and spiritual sti^ucture, formation, growth, and 
maturity be fully developed, cultivated, and per- 
fected : so that when the ' ' mortal puts on immor- 
tality." and seeks '• a home in the heavens," it can 
expand into a celestial life, without spot or blemish 
to mar its beauty or impede its progress in bliss 
and glory eternal. — A Stellar Key to the Summer 
Land, Chap. XVIII. 


DAVIS, Henry Winter, an American 
statesman and orator, born at Annapolis, 
Maryland, in 1817, died at Baltimore, Decem- 
ber 30, 1865. He graduated at Ken yon Col- 
lege, Ohio, in 1837, afterwards studied law at 
the University of Virginia, and entered upon 
legal practice at Alexandria, Virginia. In 
1850 he removed to Baltimore. In 1855 he 
was elected to Congress, as a Democrat, and 
was re-elected for the two following terms. 
In 1856 he advocated the election of Mr. FiU- 
inore to the Presidency, in opposition to Mr. 
Buchanan and Mr. Fremont. In 1859 he put 
an end to the protracted contest for the 
Speakership of the House of Representatives, 
by voting for Mr. Pennington, the Whig can- 
didate, whereupon the Legislature of Mary- 
laud passed a resolution to the effect that he 
had misrepresented the State, and had for- 
feited the confidence of the people. When 
the civil war broke out, and there was danger 
that Maryland would join the seceding States, 
Mr. Davis strenuously opposed this projected 
measure. In 1862 he was again elected to 
Congress as a Unionist, and was chosen as 
chairman of the Committee on Foreign Af- 
fairs. His earnest advocacy of the emanci- 
pation of the slaves, and of extending the 
right of suffrage to the colored race, placed 
him among the foremost civilians during the 
war. His latest public efforts, made not long 
before his death, were directed toward the 
latter of these objects. Mr. Davis published 
The War of Ormuzd and Ahriman in the 
Nineteenth Century (1853), and a volume of 
his Speeches and Addresses appeared in 1867. 


The repudiation of the Democratic party is the 
first condition and best security for peace and 
safety. It silences the plea of revenge and retaUa- 
tion. The people of the South owe it to them- 


selves and to their future as completely to discard 
the Democrats as the people of the North have with- 
drawn from them their confidence. But there are 
Democratic gentlemen who anticipate the success 
of the argument in driving everybody to support 
Mr. Fremont, and who speculate on the conse- 
quences. There are men wlio go about the country 
declaiming about the inevitable consequences of 
the election of Mr. Fremont ; and the question is 
asked whether that simple fact is not sufficient, not 
merely to justify, but to require a dissolution of the 
Union. Tliat is a question whicli I do not regard as 
even a subject of discussion. It will never be done 
while men have theirrea.son. It will never be done 
until some party, bent upon acquiring party power, 
shall again and again exasperate, beyond the 
reach of reason, Northern and Southern minds, as 
my Southern friends have now exasperated the 
Northern minds. It would be an act of suicide — 
and sane men do not commit suicide. The act it- 
self is insanity. It will be done — if ever — in a 
tempest of fury and madness which cannot stop 
to reason. Dissolution means death — the suicide 
of Liberty without the hope of resuiTection ; death 
without the glories of immortalitj'. with no sister 
to mourn her fate, none to wrap her decently in 
her winding-sheet, and bear her tenderly to her 
sepulchre : dead Liberty left to the hoiTors of cor- 
ruption, a loathsome thing, with a stake through 
the body, which men shun, cast out naked on the 
highway of nations, where the tyrants of the 
earth, who feared her living, wiU mock her dead — 
passing by on the other side, wagging their heads, 
and thrusting their tongue in their cheek at her, 
saying " Behold her ! how she that was fair among 
nations is fallen ! is fallen I "' And only the few 
wise men who loved her, out of every nation, will 
shed tears over her body to quiet her manes ; 
while we, her children, stumble about her ruined 
habitations, to find dishonorable graves wherein 
to hide our shame. . , . 

Gentlemen ask, '• If IMr. Fremont is elected, 
how will Maryland go ? What will Maryland do?" 
I do not allow that question to be asked. She knows 


but one country, and but one Union. Her glory is 
in it ; her rights are bound up in it. Her children 
shed their blood for it, and they will do it again. 
Beyond it slie knows nothing. She does not reckon 
whether tliere is more advantage in the Union to 
the North or to the South ; she does not calculate 
its value : nor does she cast up an account of 
profit and loss on the blood of her children. That 
is my answer to that question. But Sir, it is por- 
tentous to hear the members of a party contest- 
ing for the Presidency menance dissolution and 
I'evolution as the penalty they will inflict on the 
victors for defeating them. People who do not 
hold the Union worth four years' deprivation of 
office, are scarcely safe depositories of its powers. 
—Speech in Congress, Augiist 7, 1856. 


We have disposed of the doctrine of secession 
by tlie bayonet ; but that their acute legal sug- 
gestion — thtrt although the State lias not the right 
to rebel, yet the citizens are bound to obey it, and 
it will stand between them and responsibility in- 
cm-red in fighting for it agamst the Nation — may 
be effectually put down, it must be refuted, as it 
only can be, by the judgment of death on their 
leadmg traitor. I am not bloody-minded, and I 
think mere personal punishment at the end of a 
war in which two or three hundred thousand men 
have been laid in bloody graves, has no relation to 
the ordinary purposes of punishment. If you could 
punish so as to break and destroy the power of 
the "aristocracy" which inaugurated the war, it 
were well. But Congress has refused to pass the 
law which deprived them of their citizenship ; 
and now the supreme law^ of the land forbids it, 
the opportunity is gone, and gone forever. They 
have suffered, and suffered much, by the confisca- 
tion of their slaves. But the mere hanging of men 
has no power to prevent such a rebellion as this, 
wherein men have staked hundreds of thousands 
of lives on the issue, and died glorying in their 
cause. By hanging them you would be only mul- 
tiplying the number of martyrs without materially 


diminishing that of criminals. But they should be 
stami^ed with the foul brand of treason — not al- 
lowed to glory over their struggle against the Na- 
tion ; to remain the heroes of the South as they 
are at this day. 

When the vanquished rebel can hang his sword 
over his door, and in after years boast of it to his 
grandchildren, you have left the seeds of future 
reliellion. the temptation of immunity for the fu- 
ture ; and it is material that these great words of 
the Constitution. "This Constitution, and the 
laws of the United States made in pursuance 
thereof, shall be the supreme law of the land '" — 
shall be understood to mean what they say ; to be 
resisted by no wire-«lrawn pleas ; to be avoided 
by no plea of States Rights ; to be stripped of au- 
thority by no inipunity claimed under any obliga- 
tion to obey the Constitution of the State : so that 
the man who takes his musket to resist it, shall 
know that he commits the crime and not his 
State. The judgment of the court will clear him 
of every delusion on this subject ; so that here- 
after he will not be troubled by metaphysical ar- 
guments on State Rights, which are National 
Wrongs ; but he may go to his doom justly as 
well as legally. 

The kindly advice of our English cousins and 
our French friends, preaching moderation in the 
hour of victory, is good ; but we cannot but re- 
member that their friends are those who are to 
suffer. Hopes of foreign aid from those Powers 
weighed heavily in causing the rebellion, and they 
naturally have an interest in preventing the ex- 
treme penalty of the law from falling on the heads 
of those they tempted and deserted. We can un- 
derstand that they have an interest in still keeping 
open a cleavage in the fast-closing rock of the re- 
public, wherein foreign Powers may again force 
a lever to shake the republic to its foundations. 
When we feel the need of it, we will ask their ad- 
vice ; but we look alone to our laics ior the rule 
of our action, and to the moderation of the people 
to prevent the sjain of useless blood upon our 
hands. . . . 


We cannot govern this immense region by 
military power. That would be to create pro- 
consuls to whom the armies will become devoted, 
in whom the spirit of ambitious power will grow 
and become strong, and one of whom may, like 
Caesar, march across the Rubicon, on the insidious 
pretext of the public good; when America may be 
as Rome was. Military government in vast 
regions of territory, over great populations, is in- 
consistent not only with the principles of our 
institutions, but with the permanence and integ- 
rity of the American government, and therefore 
must be excluded from everybody's mind. If you 
wish a teniporary civil government let it be or- 
ganized by law : but we must recognize not only 
pergonal freedom, but the principles of self-govern- 
ment—the right of the People to rule. We want 
no rebel State government ; we want still less :i 
military government. A rebel government is 
safer than a military government. We do not 
want oligarchies of professed Union men, who 
have been so low down out of sight that nobody 
can divine their relations to the rebellion ; or men 
that treacherously sympathized with the power 
that was, and now meanly seek to serve the 
power that is. We want the free government of 
the loyal men of the Soutli who are on our side ; 
who will draw the sword for us, and will main- 
tain our rights where they are threatened, and are 
powerful enough to maintain the authority of the 
State government at home. There is no white 
population at the South— no great mass of it any- 
where — who will conform to these conditions. 
After you have erased from the list of voters 
every man you can clearly prove to have been a 
Secessionist— after you have sifted clear all you 
can call the loyal men— you have men who have 
sympathized with rebellion, have given it their 
countenance, if not their active aid by their arms 
and their money : can they be relied on in any 
emergency ? The Secessionists of the South are 
the heroes of the South— toasted, feted, worshiped. 
Under a reorganization on the basis of the white 


li(il)ulatioii, the South will be more united and 
powerful tlian \vhe)i she drew the sword. . . . 

No StMte government has ever been organized 
which ostracized a majority or any great mass of 
the people. When slavery existed, slaves were 
merged in the master. But the right of the State 
to ostracize a great mass of free negroes has never 
been recognized. When negroes become free, they 
become a part of the People of the nation, and to 
ostracize them is to sanction a principle fatal to 
American free government. . . . We need the 
votes of all the coloreil people. It is numbers, not 
intelligence, that count at the ballot-box. Let 
Congi'ess pass an amendment to the Constitution 
consecrating forever the mass of the people as the 
basis of the republican government ; when this 
shall have received the assent of three-fourths of 
those now represented in, let Congress 
instantly proclaim it as tlie fundamental law of 
the land — valid and binding a.s the Constitution 
itself, of which they will thus have made it apart ; 
under wliich they sit ; of which no State caprice, 
no question of political parties, nothing in the 
future, except the triumph of slavery over free 
institutions, can ever shake or call in question. 
Then all the principles of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence will be executed ; tliis government will 
rest on the right of individual liberty, and the 
right of every man to bear a share in the govern- 
ment of the country whose laws he obeys, and 
whose bayonet, in the hour of danger lie bears. And 
the personal freedom which the dark children of the 
republic have won bj- our blood and theirs, will not 
be a vain mockery, exposed to violation at the 
caprice of their masters, enthroned in the Legisla- 
ture, on the bench, and in the executive chamber, 
but secured by the arms they hold, and the ballot 
they cast, will be Liberty guarded by Power. — 
Oration at Chicago, July 4, 1865. 

DAVIS, Jefferson, President of the Con- 
federate States of America, was born in Ken- 
tucky, June 3, 1808. Shortly after his birth 
his father removed to Wilkinson County, 


Mississippi. The son entered Transylvania 
College, Kentucky, but in 1824 was appointed 
a cadet in the Military Academy at West 
Point, where he graduated in 1828. He re- 
mained in the army until 1835, serving on the 
frontiers, Avhen, haviug married the daughter 
of Col. Zachary Taylor, afterwai'ds General 
and President of the United States, he resign- 
ed his commission, and became a cotton- 
planter in Mississippi. In 1844 he was elected 
a Representative in Congress. The war with 
Mexico having broken out, Mr. Davis was 
elected Colonel of the First Mississippi regi- 
ment of Volunteers. Resigning his seat in 
Congress, he overtook his regiment at New 
Orleans, and led it to reinforce Gen. Taylor 
on the Rio Grande. He was actively engaged 
in the capture of Monterey, in September, 
1846, and was severely wounded at the battle 
of Buena Vista, February 23, 1847. In Au- 
gust, 1847, he was appointed by the Governor 
of Mississippi to fill a vacancy' in the Senate 
of the United States for the teriu expiring 
March 4, 1851 ; and was thereafter elected for 
the next Senatorial term of six years. He 
was made chairman of the Committee on 
Military Aftaii's; but in September he ac- 
cepted the Democratic nomination for Gov- 
ernor of Mississippi, and resigned his seat in 
the Senate. He was defeated, by a very 
small majority by Mr. Foote, the '"Union" 
candidate for Governor. He remained in re- 
tirement until 1853. when he became Secreta- 
ry of War in the Cabinet of Mr. Pierce. He 
administered the duties of this position with 
great ability until the inauguration of Mr. 
Buchanan in 1857. He was then again elected 
Senator in Congress for the term ending 
March 4, 1863, and became the acknowledged 
leader of the Democratic party in the Senate. 
The State of Mississippi formally seceded 


from the Union, January 9, 1S61, and on the 
21st Mr. Davis made his farewell speech in 
the Senate. In February a Congress com- 
posed of delegates from the States which had 
already seceded, convened at Montgomery, 
Alabama, and framed a Provisional Govern- 
ment. Mr. Davis being chosen President, and 
Mr. Alexander H. Stephens Vice-President. 
On Mny 20, Virginia having entered the Con- 
federacy, the seat of government was trans- 
ferred to Richmond. A presidential elec- 
tion was held in November throughout 
the Confederacy; Mr. Davis was elected 
President, and Mr. Stephens Vice-President, 
for the term of six years. Mr. Da^'is was in- 
augurated February 22. 1862. The Confeder- 
ate Government virtually came to an end by 
the surrender of the armies commanded by 
Generals Lee and Johnston in April, 1865. Mr. 
Davis, however, b(4ieved that the contest 
might still be carried on in the region bej'ond 
the Mississippi, and was endeavoring to make 
his way to that quarter, when he was captur- 
ed in northern Georgia, Maj- 10, by a small de- 
tachment of Union cavalry. He was taken to 
Fortress Monroe, where he was imprisoned 
for two years, awaiting trial. In May, 1867, 
he was formally arraigned before a United 
States Court, sitting at Richmond, upon a 
charge of high treason. The trial, however, 
did not take place, and he was released upon 
bail. In December. 1868. the Government 
entered a nolle prosequi, and Mr. Davis was 
discharged. For a time he entered upon 
business pursuits, which, however, he ulti- 
mately abandoned. 

Mr. Davis delivered numerous elaborate 
speeches during his congressional career, and 
while he was President of the Confederate 
States. In 1881 he put forth The Rise and 
Fall of the Confederate Government, in two 


large volumes, devoted mainly to the advoca- 
cy of the principles upon which the Southern 
Confederacy was based, and a justification of 
his own conduct as its President. 


The object of this work has been from histori- 
cal (lata to show that the Southern States liad 
rightfully the power to withdraw from a Union 
into which they had, as sovereign communities, 
voluntarily entered ; that the denial of that right 
was a violation of the letter and spirit of the 
compact between the States ; and that the war 
waged by the Federal Government against the se- 
ceding State was in disregard of the limitations of 
the Constitution, and destructive of the principles 
of the Declaration of Independence. . . . 

The incentive to undertake the work was the 
desire to correct misapprehension created by in- 
dustriously circulated misrepresentations as to the 
acts and purposes of the People and the General 
Government of the Confederate States. By there- 
iteration of such unappropriate terms as " rebel- 
lion" and '"treason." and the asseveration that 
the South was levjdng war against the United 
States, those ignorant of the nature of the Union, 
and of the reserved powers of the States, have 
been led to believe that the Confederate States were 
in the condition of revolted provmces, and that the 
United States were forced to arms for the preser- 
vation of then- existence. To those who know that 
the Union was formed for specific enumerated 
pvu-poses, and that the States had never surrend- 
ered their sovereignty, it was a palpable absurdity 
to apply to them, or to their citizens when obey- 
ing their mandates, the terms -'rebellion" and 
' ' treason : " and further, it is shown that the 
Confederate States, so far from making war or 
seeking to destroy the United States, as soon as 
they had an official organ, strove earnestly, by 
peaceful negotiation, to equitably adjust all ques- 
tions growing out of the separation from their late 
associates. . . . 


Much of the past is irremediable. The best hope 
for a restorati<Mi in the future to the pristine puri- 
ty and fraternity of the Union, rests on the opin- 
ions and c'naracter of the men who are to succeed 
tliis generation. That they may be suited to tJiat 
blessed work, one whoso public course is ended 
invokes them to draw tlieir creed from the fount- 
ains of our political lustorj-, rather than from the 
lower stream — polluted as it has been by self-seek- 
ing place-hunters and by sectional strife. — Preface 
to the Rise and Fall of the Co7ifQdctxUe Govem- 


In November, 1860, after the result of the Presi- 
dential election was known, the Governor of 
Mississippi, having issued his proclamation con- 
voking a special session of the Legislature to con- 
sider the propriety of calling a Convention, invited 
the Senators and Representatives in Congress to 
meet him for consultation as to the character of 
the Message he should send to the Legislature 
when assembled. While holding, in common with 
my political associates, that the right of a State to 
secede was unquestionable, I differed from most 
of them as to the probability of our being per- 
mitted peaceably to exercise the right. The 
knowledge acquired by the administration of the 
War Department for four years, and by the chair- 
manship of the Militarj- Committee of the Senate 
at two different periods, still longer in combined 
duration, had shown me the entire lack of prepar- 
ation for war in the South. The foundries and 
armories were in the Northern States, and there 
were stored all the new and improved weapons of 
war. In the arsenals of the Southern States were 
to be found only arms of the old and rejected 
models. The South had no manufactories of 
powder, and no navy to protect our harbors, no 
merchant-ships for foreign commerce. It was 
evident to me, therefore, that, if we should be in- 
volved in war, the odds against us would be far 
greater than what was due merely to our inferior- 
ity in population. Believing that secession would 


be the precursor of war between the States, I was 
consequently slower and more reluctant than 
others, who entertained a different opinion, to re- 
sort to that remedy. — Rise and Fall, Vol. I., p. 57. 


The primary, paramount allegiance of the citi- 
zen is due to the sovereign only. That sovereign, 
under our system, is the People — the People of the 
State to which he belongs — the People who con- 
stituted the State Government which he obeys, 
and which protects him in the enjoyment of his 
personal rights ; the People wlio alone (as far as 
he is concerned) ordained and established the 
Federal Constitution and Federal Government ; 
the People who have reserved to themselves sov- 
ereignty — which implies the power to revoke all 
agencies created by them. The obligation to sup- 
jiort the State or Federal Constitution, and the 
()l)0ilience due to either State or Federal Govern- 
ment, are alike derived from and dependent on 
the allegiance due to this sovereign. If the sov- 
ereign abolishes the State Government, and or- 
dains and establishes a new one, the obligation of 
allegiance requires him to transfer liis allegiance 
accordingly. If the sovereign withdraws from 
association with its confederates in the Union, the 
allegiance of the citizen i-equires him to follow the 
sovereign. Any other course is rebellion or trea- 
son — words which in the cant of the day have 
been so grossly misapplied and perverted as to lie 
made worse than unmeaning. His relationship 
to the Union arose from the membership of the 
State of which he was a citizen, and ceased when- 
ever his State withdrew from it. He cannot owe 
obedience — much less allegiance — to an association 
from which his sovereign has separated, and 
thereby withdrawn him. 

Every officer of both Federal and State Govern- 
ments is required to take an oath to support the 
Constitution, a compact the binding force of 
which is based upon the sovereignty of the States 
— a sovereignty necessari^ carrying with it the 
principles just stated with regard to allegiance. 


Every such officer is. therefore, virtually sworn 
to maintain and support the sovereignty of ail 
the States. Military and naval officers take, in ad- 
dition, an oath to obey the lawful orders of their 
superiors. Such an oath has never been under- 
stood to be eternal in its obligations. It is dis- 
solved by the death, dismissal, or resignation of 
the officer who takes it ; and such resignation is 
not a mere optional right, but becomes an impera- 
tive duty when continuance in the service comes 
to be in conflict with the ultimate allegiance due 
to the sovereignty of the States to which he be- 
longs.— Rise and Fall, Vol. I., p. 182. 


On Sunday the 2d of April, 1865, while I was in 
St. Paul's church, General Lee's telegram, an- 
nouncing his speedy withdrawal from Petersburg, 
and the consequent necessity for evacuating Rich- 
mond, was handed to me. I quietly rose and left 
the church. ... I went to my office and assem- 
bled the heads of departments and bureaus, as far 
as they could be found on a day when all the 
offices were closed, and gave the needful instruc- 
tions for our removal that night, simultaneously 
with General Lee's withdrawal from Petersburg. 
The event was not unforeseen, and some prepara- 
tion had been made for it ; though, as it came 
sooner than was expected, there was much to be 
done. My own papers were disposed as usual for 
convenient reference in the transaction of current 
affairs, and as soon as the principal officers had 
left me, the executive papers were arranged for re- 
moval. This occupied myself and staff until late 
in the afternoon. . . . 

In view of the diminishing resources of the 
country on which the Army of Northern Virginia 
relied for supplies, I had urged the policy of send- 
ing families, as far as practicable, to the South 
and "West, and had set the example by requiring 
my own to go. . . . Being alone in Richmond, the 
few arrangerrients needful for my personal wants 
were soon made after reaching home. Then, leav- 
ing all else in cliarge of the housekeeper, I waited 


until notified of tlie time when the train would de- 
part ; then going to the station, started for Dan- 
ville, whithei' I supposed General Lee would pro- 
ceed with his army. . . . 

The design, as previously arranged with Gen- 
eral Lee was that, if he should be compelled to 
evacuate Petersburg, he would proceed to Dan- 
ville, make a new defensive line of the Dan and 
Roanoke rivers, unite his army with the troops in 
North Carolina, and make a combined attack up- 
on Sherman. If successful, it was expected that 
reviving hope would bring reenforcements to the 
army ; and Grant, being then far removed from 
his base of supplies, and in the midst of a hostile 
population, it was thought we might return, drive 
him from the soil of Virginia, and restore to the 
people a government deriving its authority from 
their consent. With these hopes and wishes — 
neither seeking to diminish the magnitude of our 
disaster, nor to excite illusory expectations — I 
issued on the 5th, the following proclamation, of 
which, viewed in the light of subsequent events, it 
may fairly be said, it was over-sanguine : 

'* The General-in-Chief found it necessary to make 
such movements of his troops as to uncover the 
capital. It would be unwise to conceal the moral 
and material injury to our cause resulting from its 
occupation by the enemy. It is equally unwise 
and unworth}' of us to allow our energies to falter, 
and our efforts to become relaxed under reverses, 
however calamitous they may be. 

" For many months the largest and finest army 
of the Confederacy, under a leader whose pres- 
ence inspires equal confidence in the troops and 
the people has been greatly trammeled by the 
necessity of keeping constant watch over the ap- 
proaches to the capital ; and has thus been 
forced to forego more than one opportunity for 
promising enterprise. It is for us, my country- 
men, to show by our bearing under reverses. 
how wretched has been the self-deception of those 
who have believed us less able to endure misfor- 
tune with fortitude, than to encoimter danger 
with courage. 


"We have now entered upon a new phase of the 
struggle. Relieved from the necessity of guard- 
ing particular points, our army will be free to 
move from point to point — to strike the enemy in 
detail far from his liase. Let us but will it, and 
we are free. 

"Animated by that confidence in your spirit and 
fortitude which never yet failed me, I announce 
to you, fellow countrymen, that it is my purpose 
to maintain your cause with my whole heart and 
soul ; that I will never consent to abandon to the 
enemy one foot of the soil of any of the States of 
the Confederacy ; that Virginia — noble State, 
whose ancient renown has been eclipsed bj^ her 
still more glorious recent history, whose bosom 
has been bared to receive the main shock of this 
war, whose sons and daughters have exhibited 
heroism so sublime as to render her illustrious in 
all time to come ; that Virginia, with the help of 
the people, and by the blessing of Providence, 
shall be held and defended, and no peace ever be 
made with the infamous invaders of her terri- 
tory. If, by the stress of numbers, we should be 
compelled to a temporary withdrawal from her 
limits, or those of any other Border State, we wiU 
return until the baffled and exhausted enemy 
shall abandon in despair his endless and impossi- 
ble task of making slaves of a people resolved to 
be free. Let us, then, not despond, my country- 
men, but relying on God, meet the foe, with fresh 
defiance, and Avith unconquered and unconquer- 
able hearts." — Rise and Fall, Vol. II., p. 667. 


After leaving Washington, Georgia, I overtook 
a commissary and quartermaster's train, having 
public papers of value in their charge. On the 
second or third day after leaving Washington I 
heard that a band of marauders, supposed to be 
stragglers and deserters from both armies, were in 
pursuit of my family, whom I had not seen since 
I left Richmond, but who, I ]\eard, had gone with 
my private secretary and seven paroled men, who 
generously offered their services as an escort to 


the Florida coast. Their route was to the east of 
that I was pursuing ; but I immediately clianged 
direction, and rode rapidly across the country to 
overtake them. . . . For the protection of my 
family, I traveled with them for two or three 
days, when believing that they had passed out of 
the region of the marauders, I determined to leave 
their encampment at nightfall, to execute my 
original purpose [to cross to the trans-Mississippi 
Department, and there unite with the armies of 
E. K. Smith and Magruder, who it was thought, 
would still be able to uphold the Confederate 
cause until a treaty could be arranged.] 

My horse, and those of my party proper, were 
saddled preparatory to start, when one of my 
staff, who had ridden into the neighboring village, 
returned and told me that he had heard that a 
marauding party intended to attack the camp that 
night. This decided me to wait long enough to 
see whether there was any truth in the rumor, 
which I supposed would be ascertained in a few 
hours. My horse remained saddled, and my pis- 
tols in the holsters, and I lay down, fully dressed, 
to rest. Nothing occurred to rouse me until just 
before dawn, when my coachman — a free colored 
man, who faithfully clung to our fortunes— came 
and told me that there was firing- over the branch, 
just behind our encampment. I turned back, and 
told my wife that these were not the expected 
marauders, but regular troopers. She implored 
me to leave her at once. I hesitated, from unwill- 
ingness to do so, and lost a few precious moments 
before yielding to her importunity. 

My horse and arms were near the road on which 
I expected to leave, and down which the cavalry 
approached. It was therefore impracticable to 
reach them. I was compelled to start in the op- 
posite direction. As it was quite dark in the tent, 
I picked up what was supposed to be my "rag- 
Ian " — a water-proof light overcoat without sleeves. 
It was subsequently found to be my wife's, so 
very like my own as to be mistaken for it. As I 
started, my Avife thoughtfully threw over my 
head and shoulders a shawl. 


I had gone perhaps fifteen or twenty yards 
when a trooper galloped up, and ordered me to 
halt and surrender ; to which I gave a defiant an- 
swer, and dropping the shawl and raglan from my 
shoulders, advanced toward him. He leveled his 
carbine at me ; but I expected, if he fired, he 
would miss me ; and my intention was in that 
event to put my hand under his foot, tumble him 
off on the other side, spring into his saddle, and 
attempt to escape. My wife, who had been 
watching, when she saw the soldier aim his car- 
bine at me, ' ran forward and threw her arms 
around me. Success depended on instantaneous 
action ; and, recognizing that the opportunity had 
been lost, I turned back, and, the morning being 
damp and chilly, passed on to a fire beyond the 
tent. Our pursuers liad taken different roads, and 
approached ; they encountered each other and 
commenced firing, both supposing they had met 
an armed escort, and some casualties resulted 
from their conflict with an imaginary body of 
Confederate troops. During the confusion, while 
attention was concentrated upon myself, except 
by those who were engaged in pillage, one of my 
aides, Colonel J. Taylor Wood, with Lieutenant 
Barnwell, walked off unobserved. His daring ex- 
ploits on the sea had made him, on the part of 
the Federal Government, an object of special hos- 
tility, and rendered it quite proper that he should 
avail himself of every possible means of escape. . . . 
WiLson and others have uttered many false- 
hoods in regard to my capture, which have been 
exposed in publications by persons there present : 
by Secretary Reagan, by the members of my per- 
sonal staff, by the colored coachman. Jim Jones— 
which must have been convincing to all who were 
not given over to believe a lie. For this reason I 
will postpone to some other time and more appro- 
priate place, any further notice of the story and 
its variations — all the spawn of a malignity that 
shames the civilization of the age.— iSise and Foll^ 
Vol. II., p. 700. 



My first object in this work was to prove, by 
historical authority, that each of the States, as 
sovereign parties to the compact of union, had the 
reserved power to secede from it whenever it 
should be found not to answer the ends for which 
it was established. If this has been done, it fol- 
lows that the war was, on the pai't of the United 
States Government, one of aggression and usurpa- 
tion ; and, on the part of the South, was for the 
defense of an inherent and, unalienable right. 

My next purpose was to show, by the gallantry 
and devotion of the Southern people, in their une- 
qual straggle, how thorough was their conviction 
of the justice of their cause ; that, by their hu- 
manity to the wounded and captives, they proved 
themselves the worthy descendants of civilized 
sires, and fit to be free ; and that, in every case — 
as when our army invaded Pennsylvania — by their 
respect for private rights, their morality and ob- 
servance of the laws of civilized war, they are en- 
titled to the confidence and regard of mankind. . . . 

In asserting the right of secession, it has not 
been my wish to incite to its exercise. I recog- 
nize the fact that the war showed it to be im- 
practicable ; but this did not prove it to be wrong. 
And now that it may not be again atte'mpted, and 
that the union may promote the general welfare, 
it is needful that the truth — the whole truth — 
should be known, so that crimination and recrimi- 
nation may forever cease ; and then, on the basis 
of fraternity and faithful regard for the rights of 
the States, there may be written on the arch of 
the Union, Esto perpetua. — Rise and Fall, Vol II., 
p. 764. 

DAVIS, John, an English navigator, bom 
about 1540, died in 1605. Betvsreen 1585 and 
1587 he distinguished himself by three voy- 
ages undertaken for the discovery of a north- 
west passage to Asia. In the first of these 
voyages he discovered the strait leading into 
Hudson's Bay, which still bears his name ; in 


the next year he sailed akmg the coast of 
Greenland going as far north as lat. 72'-^ 12-. 
In 1591 he was second in conunand in the 
unfortiuiate voyage of Cavendish to the South 
Sea. After this he made; five voyagi's to the 
East Indies, and was finally killed by pirates 
in the Strait of Malac-ca. lie was a sailor of 
extraordinary profrssioual ac(|uirements, in- 
vented a (luadraiit for taking the sun's altitude 
at sea, which was some thirty years alter 
superseded by Hadley's sextant. In 1595 he 
l)ublished a curious book entitled Tlie WorhVs 
Hydrographical Description, " wherein," as 
is stated on the title-page, "is proved not 
onely by aucthoritie of writers, but also by 
late experience of trauellers, and reasons of 
substantiall probabilitie, that the worlde in 
all his zones, clyniats, and places, is habitable 
and inhabited, and the seas likewise univer- 
sally nauigable, without any naturall anoy- 
ance to hinder the same; whereby appeares 
that from England there is a short and speedie 
l)assage into the South Seius to China, Malucca, 
Phillipina, and India, by noi'therly naviga- 
tion, to the I'enowne, honour, and benefit of 
her maiesties state and communalty." By 
way of corroborating his theory he gives a 
short narrative of his voyages for the dis- 
covery of the Northwest Passage; his being 
the earliest account of voyaging in the Green- 
land seas: 

In my first voyage, not experienced of the na- 
ture of those clymattes, and liaving no direction 
either by Chart, Globe, or other certayne relation 
in what altitude that passage was to bee searched, 
I shaped a Northerly course, and so sought the 
same towards the south, and in that my Nor- 
tlierly course I fell upon the shore which in 
ancient time was called Groynland, fiue hun- 
dred leagues distant from the durseys West Nor 


West Northerly, the land being very high and 
full of luightie niountaines all couered with snow, 
no viewe of wciod, grasse, or earth to be seene, and 
the slioretwoleagesof into the sea, so full ofyseas 
that no shipping cold by any means come neere the 
same. The lothsome vewe of the shore, and irk- 
some noyse of the yse was such, as that it bred 
strange conceipts among us, so that we supposed 
the place to be wast and voyd of any sencible or 
vegitable creatun-s, whereupon 1 tailed the same 
Desolation; so coasting this shore towardes the 
South in the latitude of sixtie degrees, I found it to 
trend towardes the west. I still followed the lead- 
ing thereof in the same lieight. and after fiftie 
or sixtie leages it fayled and lay directly north, 
which I still followed, and in thirtie leages sayling 
upon the West side of this coast by me named Des- 
olation, we were past all the yse and found many 
greene and plesant Ills bordering upon the shore, 
but the mountains of the maine were still covered 
with great quantities of snowe. I brought my 
shippe among those ylls, and there mored to re- 
freshe oiu" selves in our wearie travell, in the lati- 
tude of sixtie foiire degrees or there about. The 
j)eople of the country, having espyed our shipps. 
came down unto us in their canoes, holding up 
their right hand to the Sunne and crying Yliaout, 
woiUd .stricke their brestes ; we doing the like, the 
people came aborde our shippes. men of good 
stature, unbearded, small eyed and of tractable 
conditions ; by whom, as signes would permit, we 
understoode that towardes the North and West 
there was a great sea, and using the people with 
kindnesse in geuing them nayles and knifes which 
of all things the}' most desired, we departed, and 
finding the sea free fi-om yse, supposing our selves 
to be past all daunger we shaped our course West 
Nor West, thinking thereby to passe for China, but 
in the latitude of sixtie sixe degrees, wee fell with 
an other shore, and tb.ere founde an other passage 
of 20 leages broade directly West into the same, 
which ^e supposed to bee our hoped strayght. 
We intered into the same thirty or fortie leages, 
finding it neither to wyden nor straighten ; then, 


considering that the yeere T^'as spent, for this was 
in the fyne of August, and not knowingthe length 
of this straight and dangers thereof, we tooke it 
our best course to retourne with notice of our good 
successe for this small time of search. And so re- 
tourning in a sharpe fret of Westerly windes, the 
29 of September we arrived at Dartmouth. 

And acquainting master Secretory with the rest 
of the honorable and wurshipfull aduenlurers of 
all our procedinges, I was appointed againe the 
seconde yeere to searcli the bottome of this 
straight, because by all likeliliootl it was the place 
and passage by us laboured fur. In this second 
attempt the merchants of Exeter and other places 
of the West became aduenturers in the action, so 
tliat, being sufficiently furnished for sixe monthes, 
and having direction to search this straighte, untill 
we found the same to fall into an other sea upon 
the West side of this part of America, we should 
agayne retourne, for then it was not to be doubted 
but shiping with trade might safely bee conueied 
to China and the parts of Asia. We departed 
from Dartmouth, and ariving unto the south part 
of the cost of Dosolation, costetl the same upon his 
west shore to the lat. of 66 degres, and there an- 
cored among the ylls liordoring upon the same, 
where wee refreshed our selues. The people of 
this place came likewise vnto vs, by whome I vn- 
derstood through their signes that towardes the 
North the sea was large. At this place the chiefe 
shipe wliereupon I trusted, called the Mermayd of 
Dartmouth, found many occasions of discontent- 
ment, and being unwilling to proceede she there 
forsooke me. Then considering howe I had giuen 
my fayth and most constant promise to my 
worshipfuU good friend master William San- 
derson, who of all men was the greatest aduentur- 
er in that action, and tooke such care for the per- 
fourmancethcereof that bee hath to my knowledge 
at one time tlisbursed as mucli money a,s any fine 
others whatsoeuer out of his owne purse, when 
some of the company haue bin slacke in giuing 
in their aduentiire. And also knowing that I 
shouldelose the lauour of master Secretory, if I 



shoulde shrinke from his direction, in one small 
barke of thirty tonnes, whereof master Sanderson 
was owner, «,lone witliout farther comfort or 
company I proceeded oh my voyage, and ariuing 
unto this straights followed the same eightie 
leages, vntill I came among many ylandes, 
where the water did eb and flowe sixe fadome 
vpright, and where there had beene great 
trade of people to make trayne. But by such 
thinges as there we f ountle, wee knewe that 
they were not Xtians of Europe that vsed that 
trade ; in fine, b}- searching with our boate, wee 
founde small hope to passe any farther that way, 
and therefore retourning againe recouered the sea 
and so coasted the shore towardes the South, and 
in so doing — for it was to late to search t<nvardes 
the North — we founde an oihcr great inlett neere 
fortie leages broade where the water entred in 
with violent swiftnes. This we likewise thought 
might be a passage, for no doubt but the Northe 
partes of America are all ylands, by ought that I 
could perceiue therein ; but because I was alone 
in a small barke of thirtie tonnes, and the yeere 
spent I entered not into the same, for it was now 
the seuenth of September, but coasting the shore 
'towardes the South we saw an incredible number 
of birdes. Hauing diners fishermen aborde our 
barke, they all concluded that there was a great 
scull of fish. Wee beeing vnprouided of fishing 
furniture, with a long spike nayle mayde a hoke, 
and fastening the same to one of our sounding 
lynes. Before the bayte was changed wee tooke 
more than fortie great cods, the fishe swimming 
so abouiidantly thicke about our barke as is in- 
credible to be reported of, which with a small por- 
tion of salte that we had, wee preserued some 
thirtie couple, or there aboutes, and so returned 
for England. And hauing reported to master 
Secretory the whole sviccesse of this attempt, hee 
commanded mee to present unto the most honor- 
able Lorde high thresurer of England some parte 
of that fish, which when his Lordship saw and 
lieaide at large the relation of this seconde at- 
tempt, I receiued fauorable countenance from his 


honour, aduising mee to prosecute the action, of 
which his Lordship conceiued a very good opin- 
ion. The next yeere, although diuers of the ad- 
uenturers fel from the action, as al the western 
merchantes and most of those in London, yet some 
of the aduenturers both honorable and worshipfull 
continued their willing fauor and charge, so that 
by this meanes the next yeere 2. shippes were ap- 
pointed for the fishing and one pynace for the dis- 

Departing from Dartmouth, through God's 
merciful fauour I ariued to the place of fishing 
and there according to my du'ection I left the 3 
shippes to foUow that business, taking their faith- 
ful promise not to depart vntill my returne vnto 
them, which shonlde bee in the fine of August, 
and so in the barke I proceeded for the discouery, 
but after my depai'ture in sixteene dayes the 
shippes had finished their voyage, and so present- 
ly departed for England, withoute regard to their 
promise. My selfe, not distrusting any such hard 
measure, proceeded in the discouerie and followed 
my course in the free and open sea, betweene North 
and Nor west, to the latitude of sixtie seuen de- 
grees, and there I might see America west from me, 
and Desolation east ; then when I saw the land of 
both sides, I began to distrust that it would 
prooue but a gulfe. Notwithstanding, desirous to 
knowe the full certaintye, I proceeded, and in sixtie 
eight degrees the passage enlarged, so that I 
could not see the westerne shore ; thus I continued 
the latitude of seuentie fine degrees, in a great 
sea, free from yse, coasting the western shore of 
Desolation. The people came continualh* rowing 
out vnto me in their Canoas, twenty, forty, and 
one hundred at a time, and would giue me fishe 
dried, Samon, Samon peale, cod, Caplin, Lumpe, 
stone base, and such like, besides diuers kindes of 
birdes, as Partrig, Fesant, Gulls, sea birdes, and 
other kindes of fleshe. I still laboured by signes to 
knowe from them what they knew of any sea to- 
wards the North. They still made signes of a great 
sea as we vnderstood them : then I departed from 
that coast, thinking to discouer the North parts 


of America, and after I had sayled towardes the 
west neere fortie leages I fell upon a great bancke 
of yse ; the wind being North and blewe much, I 
was constrained to coast tlie same towardes the 
South, not seeing any shore West from me, 
neither was there any yse towardes the North, 
but a great sea, free, large, very salt and blue, 
and of an unsearchable depth. So coasting to- 
wardes the South I came to the place wher I left 
the shippes to fislie but found them not. Then 
being forsaken and left in this distresse referrmg 
my selfe to the mercifuU prouidence of God, shap- 
edmy course for England and vnhoped f or of any, 
God alone releuing me, I ariued at Dartmouth. 
By this last discouerie it seemed most manifest 
that the passage was free and without impediment 
towardes the North, but by reason of the Spanish 
fleete and unfortunate time of master Secretoryes 
death, the voyage was omitted and neuer sithens 

DAVIS, Sir John Francis, an English di- 
plomatist and scholar, born in London in 
1795. He entered the civil service at an early- 
age, and in 1816 was attached to Lord Am- 
herst's embassy to the Chinese Court at 
Pekin. In 1834 he was made Joint Commis- 
sioner with Lord Napier, to arrange commer- 
cial and other questions between Great Brit- 
ain and China. From 1843 to 1848 he was 
British Plenipotentiary and Chief Superin- 
tendent of British Trade in China, and Gov- 
ernor of the Colony of Hong-Kong. He was 
created a Baronet in 1845. The honorary 
degree of D.C.L. has been conferred upon him 
by the University of Oxford, to which, in 
1876 he gave the sum of £1,666 for the pur- 
pose of endowing a scholarship for the purpose 
of encouraging the study of the Chinese 
language and literature. Sir John Francis 
Davis has written several works relating to 
China; the most important of which are, 
The Chinese : a General Description of China 


and its Inhabitants (1836; enlarged edition, 
1840), and China during the War and since 
the Peace (1852; enlarged edition 1857). 


The superiority whicli the Chinese possess over 
the other nations of Asia is so decided as scarcely 
to need the institution of an elaborate comparison. 
Those who have had opportunities of seeing both 
have readily admitted it. The moral causes of a 
difference so striking may perhaps occur to the 
reader of the subjoined work. The physical 
causes consist, it may reasonably be supposed, in 
the advantages which China possesses from its 
geographical situation ; in the generally favor- 
able climate, the average fertility of the soil, 
and the great facility of internal intercourse 
with whicli the country has been favored by 
nature, and which has been still farther im- 
proved by art. The early advancement of China, 
in the general history of the globe, may likewise 
be accounted for, in some measure, by natural and 
physical causes, and b}' the position of the whole 
of that vast country (with a very trivial exception) 
within the temperate zone. 

An attentive survey of the tropical regions of 
the earth, where food is produced in the greatest 
abundance, will seem to justify the conclusion 
that extreme fertility, or the power of produc- 
tion, has been rather unfavorable to the progress 
of the human race ; or, at least, that the industry 
and advancement of nations has appeared in some 
measure to depend on a certain proportion be- 
tween their necessities and their natural resources. 
Man is by nature an indolent animal ; and with- 
out the stimulant of necessity will, in the first 
instance, get on as well as he can with the provi- 
sion that nature has made for liim. In the warm 
and fertile regions of the tropics, or rather of the 
equinoctial, where lodging and clothing — the two 
necessary things after food — are rendered almost 
superfluous by the climate, and where food is pro- 
duced with very little exertion, we find how small 
a progress has been made ; while, on the other 


hand, the whole of Europe, and by far the greater 
part of China, are situated beyond the northern 

If, again, we go farther north, to those arctic re- 
gions where man exists in a very miserable state, 
we shall find that there he has no materials to 
work upon. Nature is such a niggard in the re- 
turns she makes to labor, that industry is discour- 
aged and frozen, as it were, in the outset. In 
other words, the proportion is destroyed ; the 
equinoctial regions are too spontaneously genial 
and fertile, the arctic too unkindly barren : and 
on this account it would seem that industry, 
wealth, and civilization have been principally con- 
fined to the temperate zone, where there is at 
once necessity to excite labor, and production to 
recompense it. There are, no doubt, other import- 
ant circumstances, besides geographical situation, 
which influence the advancement of nations ; but 
this at least is too considerable an ingredient to be 
left out of fhe calculation. — Tlie Chinese, Intro- 


The general prosperity and peace of China have 
b^en very much promoted by the diffusion of in- 
telligence and education through the lower classes. 
Among the countless millions that constitute the 
empire, almost every man can read and write suf- 
ficiently for the ordinary purposes of life ; and a 
respectable share of these acquirements goes low 
down in the scale of society. Of the sixteen dis- 
courses which are periodically read to the people, 
the eighth inculcates the necessity of a general 
acquaintance with the penal laws, which are 
printed purposely in a cheap shape. They argue, 
that as men cannot properly be punished for what 
they do not know, so likewise they will be less 
liable to incur the penalty if they are made ac- 
quainted with the prohibition. 

The general diffusion of education must be at- 
tributed to the influence of almost every motive 
of fear or hope that can operate on the human 
mind. It is inculcated by positive precepts, and 


encouraged by an open competition for the high- 
est rewards. One of the strongest motives to 
every Chinese to educate his sons must be the con- 
sciousness that he is Uable to punishment for their 
crimes at any period of their lives, as well as to 
rewards for their merits. Parents are often pro- 
moted for tlie acts of their sons. Montesquieu, in 
violently condemning the liability to punishment, 
seems to have been unaware, or unmindful, that 
it is in some measure the result of that absolute 
power which is through life intrusted to the 
father : and that such a trust, with some show of 
reason, carries with it a portion of responsibility. 
He is not only punished, but rewarded too, ac- 
cording as he has administered this trust. How 
such a system must operate as a motive to educa- 
tion, is sufficientl}' obvious ; and tlie only ques- 
tion is whether the amount of personal liberty 
sacrificed is balanced by the amount of public ben- 
efit gained. So sensible are they of the import- 
ance of education, that the language is full of do- 
mestic or of State maxims in reference to it : 
"Bend the mulberry-tree when it is young;" 
•' Without education in families, how are govern- 
ors of the people to be obtained ? " and so on. 
Every town has its public place of instruction, 
and wealthy families have private tutors. — The 
Chinese, Chap. VII. 


A festival much honored by the Chinese, and 
indicative of their ancient regard for agriculture, 
is that which takes place when the Sun reaches 
15* of Aquarius. The governor of every capital 
city issues in state towards the eastern gate, to 
"meet the Spring," which is represented by a 
procession bearing a huge clay figure of the 
buffalo, called by the Chinese "water-bullock" 
(from its propensity for muddy shallows), which 
is always used to drag their ploughs through the 
flooded rice-grounds. The train is attended by 
litters, on which are borne children fancifully 
dressed, and decorated with flowers, representing 
mythological personages : and the whole is ac- 


companied by a band of musicians. When they 
have reached the governor's house, he delivers a 
discourse in his capacity of Priest of Spring, 
recommending the care of husbandry ; and after 
he has stnick the clay buffalo thrice with a wliip, 
the people fall upon it with stones, and break in 
pieces the image, whose hollow inside is filled 
with a multitude of smaller images in clay, for 
which they scramble. This ceremony bears some 
resemblance to the procession of the bull Apis in 
ancient Egjpt, which was connected in like 
manner with the labors of agriculture, and the 
hopes of an abundant season. 

The emperor himself, at about the same period 
of the year, honors the profession of husbandry 
by going through the ceremony of holding the 
plough. Accompanied by some princes of the 
blood, and a selection of the principal ministers, 
he proceeds to a field set apart for the purpose, in 
the enclosure which surrounds the Temple of the 
Earth, where everything has been duly prepared 
by regular husbandmen in attendance. After cer- 
tain sacrifices, consisting of grain which has been 
preserved from the produce of the same field, the 
emperor ploughs a few furrows, after which he is 
followed by the princes and ministers in order. 
The "five sorts of grain" are then sown, and 
when the emperor has viewed the completion of 
the work by the husbandmen present, the field is 
committed to the charge of an officer, whose 
business it is to collect and store the produce for 
sacrifices. — TJie Chinese, Chap. IX. 

DAVIS, Rebecca (Harding), an American 
novelist, born at Wheeling, West Virginia, 
about 1835. Among her works are Life in 
the Iron Mines (1861) ; Waiting for the Verdict 
(1867) ; Dallas Galbraith (1868) ; JoJm Andross 
(1874) ; A Law unto Herself (1877) ; Natasqua 
(1886); Kitty's Choice; Margaret Howth; 
Balacchi Brothers, and numerous short 



Dallas went up the broad stone steps, and push- 
ing open the weighty hall door, entered without 
touching the lion's-head of a knocker which scowl- 
ed at liim. It seemed natural for liim to go in 
and out there : it was his home. No more skulk- 
ing through dark side-passages or green-house 
doors : he was done with concealment. He car- 
ried his story with him : it was not his fault if it 
was fouled and blotted : that was done by a Hand 
outside of himself : where he had written it, it 
might be weak and paltry, but it was well-inten- 
tioned and honest. 

The light was dim in the broad, high-roofed 
hall, for the November afternoon was fast merg- 
ing into dusk : there was no sound within the 
closed dooi-s on either side ; but from the barn- 
yard without he heard the rattle of the windlass 
and a man singing some old country ditty as he 
drew water from the well. The sound grated 
strangely on the melancholy silence and the chok- 
ing weight which oppressed his breath. Moro, the 
old house-dog, got up from the wolf-skin on which 
he lay asleep, and came drowsily up to the strang- 
er standing motionless by the door, sniffed about 
him critically, then rubbed his approval against 
his legs, looking up at him. The very dog, Dallas 
thought, had the anxious shadow of disaster up- 
on him. * ' Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! " stroking 
his shaggy head. But his voice was hoarse and 
unnatural, even to liimself : he was suddenly 
silent. He waited awhile without moving, but no 
door opened : only the ticking of the great clock 
that stood on the dim, broad stairs yonder told off 
the minutes. Moro crept back to his wolf-skin 
and lay down again to sleep. Dallas, after an- 
other moment's pause, chose the farthest door at 
random, and going toward it, with liis slow, 
steady step, put his hand upon the lock. But he 
did not open it. What was it that waited for 
him at the other side of that thin oaken plank ? 
The mother he had lost so long — a home — the only 
woman he had ever loved ? Or the old solitary 


life, witli the damning disgrace on his head, heav- 
ier to bear than before. 

It was his mother who sat inside by the clear 
red fire. She Came often to this quiet little room : 
not for the books on the hanging shelves, as she 
asserted, but because of a picture wliich hung over 
the mantle-shelf. It was little Tom Galbraith in 
his boyish finery of velvet trousers and blouse, his 
arm over his pony's neck. '"It is very like my 
son Dallas." she had told Madam Galbraith the 
first time she saw it. looking at it with steady 
eyes. " Only I was glad to dress him in corduroy. 
And Dallas had no pony : many a mile he trudged 
barefoot to carry lionie the clothes I had washed." 
It was the only bitter reproach the old lady had 
ever heard from her lips, and she made no retort to 
it. After that she never saw Mrs. DufBeld glance 
towards the picture. Yet there was not a day 
when she did not come and sit alone, looking at it 
with her calm, unfathomable eyes, as she was 
doing now. . . . 

She, too, heard the clock ticking through the 
dreary November afternoon, as she sat, her hands 
folded, her eyes on the child's eyes, a different 
meaning on her face from those which even her 
, nearest friends had ever found there. She stood 
up at last at the sound of a step outside, and with 
her hand on the back of her chair, gave it a quick, 
parting glance, as if she asked for pity. She was 
but a weak little woman after all, and in heart, 
perhaps, was miserably solitary. . . . She turned 
as the door opened on its noiseless hinges, and a 
tall man, in a gray coat and planter's hat, who 
stood without, after a quick glance through the 
room, came in and paused in the shadow, looking 
at her. It required a moment's breath to bring 
Mrs. DuflSeld to her ordinary calm composure. 
The room was not light enough for her to detect 
the likeness which had troubled her, but her 
quick glance recognized at once the finely-shaped 
head, the homely, noble features, which had first 
pleased her artistic eye. 

" You are Dr. Pritchard's friend ? You wish to 


see Madam Galbraith ? " recovering her ordinary 
shallow, pleasant voice. 

The man closed the door behind him, and came 
toward her, removing his hat. " No," he said 
slowly. "I did not come to see Madam Galbraith." 

She began to speak again, hesitated, and stopped. 
Her nerves were unstrung, and some old echo in 
the hoarse, choked tones sent the blood with a 
frightful throb to her heart. Dallas stood silent, 
his hat in his hands. looking down at her. He 
would not frighten her. She was so weak and 
frail ! He could see the gray hair and sunken 
temples. How long they had been apart ! 

But he did not speak a word, holding his hat 
tight clenched, the burning tears welling up slow- 
ly into his eyes. He came out now, trembling, 
into the clear firelight, where she could see him 

•' I am one of the Galbraiths," he said ; " and I 
have been told that I was like your husband." 

She leaned with one hand lightly on the table. 
The dulled grating of the well-chain was heard 
without : the cold November daylight fell through 
the windows in a square patch beside him upon 
the worn carpet. He saw and heard even those 
trifles in that moment as he waited. 

"Like my husband?" as one in a dream. But 
her keen eyes read his face. There was a sudden, 
strange change in her look, as thoiigh some vital 
chord within had been roughly jarred. •' No, you 
do not resemble my husband," she said, with a 
strong effort to regain her usual calm courtesy, 
'' But — I will go out, if you will pardon me. There 
is a likeness to some one wliom I have lost, and it 
— it pains me." Then she lost herself utterly. "It 
was my Uttle boy ! " she cried, flinging her hands 
up towards the picture. ''He is dead now — 
dead ! " 

He kneeled down at her feet in the blaze of the 
fu-elight ; he pushed his hair with both hands from 
his face. " Mother I " he said, in a whisper. " He 
is not dead. It is I, mother." 

She made no sign or cry : even in that moment 
her habit of self-control bound her strongly ; she 


put her cold hai\ds on his cheeks, drew his head 
closer, looking steadily into the long-ago familiar 
eyes, until her own grew slowly blind. 

" Dallas?" the name was wrenched at last like a 
sob out of the heart where it had so long been hid- 
den. "Dallas!" Then she stooped and would 
have kissed him ; but her head fell a dead weight 
on his shoulder. He took her in his arms and 
placed her on the chair, rubbing her hands, her 
arms, and forehead like a frantic man, but without 
saying a word. Neither mother nor son ever found 
the ordinary relief in words or outcry for the deep- 
er passions in their hearts. When her eyes opened 
at last and the sense came slowly back to them, he 
brought her a goblet of water from a side table. 
"It's not as clear water as that from our famous 
well in Chester, mother," he said cheerfully, to re- 
assure her. Her face lighted at that remembrance 
of every-day life ; she drew him down with one 
hand beside her as she lay back on the chair, but 
then did not speak to him for a long time, her eyes 
hungrily wandering over his face, her hand pass- 
ing with apathetic anxiety through his thick hair, 
down liis close-shaven cheeks, examining his hard, 
muscular hands, while she shook her head with a 
sad smile. " Why, this is a man, and I don't 
know him. Dallas, I don't know him ! And yet 
— it's the same old Dallas, after all."' 

"Yes, mother, the same old Dallas." If there 
were any way to make her feel and believe that 
before the story was told ! 

" And you remember the well ? " with a laugh, 
the tears in her eyes. " Where you planted the 
gourd- vine? We were very happy in Cliester. I 
think that was our happiest time, Dallas?" Again 
their eyes met with a meaning which no bystander 
could have understood. There Avas a history be- 
tween them which neither of them had ever yet 
put into words. Nor would they ever do it. 

" That is all over now, and I have come back to 
you, mother. To-morrow we will begin the world 
afresh." — Dallas Galbraith. 

DAVIS, Thomas Osborne, an Irish poet, 
born in 1814, died in 1845. He was educated 


at Trinity College, Dublin, and upon the es- 
tablishment of the Dublin Nation, in 1842, he 
became one of its leading writers. Under the 
signature of "A Celt," he wrote numerous 
lyrics and ballads, all inspired by a national 
spirit, which became very popular. An edi- 
tion of his poems was published in New York 
in 1860. 


Come in the evening, or come in the morning, 
Come when you 're looked for, or come without 

Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here, the more I '11 

adore you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted : 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, '"True lovers ! don't 

sever ! " 

T "11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ; 
Or, after you 've kissed them, they '11 lie on my 

I '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you : 
I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire 

you ; 
Oh ! your step 's like the rain to the summer-vexed 

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
1 '11 sing you sweet songs till tlie stars rise above 

Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence to love 


We '11 look through the trees at the cliff and the 

We '11 tread round the rath on the track of the 

We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 list to the river, 


Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
eive her. 

Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love as unchangeably 

And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream- 

Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 

As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning, 
Come when you 're looked for, or come without 

Kisses and welcome you 'II find here before you, 
And the of tener you come here the more I '11 

adore you. 
Light is my lieart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the ti'ees looks far greener than ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't 

sever ! " 

DAVY, Sir Humphry, an English chemist 
and author, born at Penzance in 1778, died at 
Geneva, Switzerland, in 1828. He commenced 
the study of medicine in his native town, in 
1795, but his attention was soon turned espe- 
cially to chemistr3^ Before he had reached 
the age of twenty-three he was invited to 
London to become a lecturer on chemistry at 
the newly -founded Eoyal Institution. His re- 
searches in chemistry, and the brilliancy of 
his lectures, form a striking chapter in the 
history of physical science. One of his most 
notable inventions was that of the "safety 
lamp " to be used in mines pervaded by the 
inflammable gas known as " Are damp." He 
was made a Knight in 1812, and a baronet in 
1818. In 1820 he succeeded Sir Joseph Banks 
as President of the Royal Society, and was 
annually re-elected for seven successive years. 
Besides ]iis more strictly scientific works, Sir 
Humphrey wrote Salmonia ; or Days of Fly- 
fishing (1828), and Consolations in Travel; 

146 SiK HUMPHRY DAY i'. 

or the Last Days of a Philosopher, composed 
during his last illness, and i^ublished after his 
death. His works were collected, with a 
Memoir (9 vols., 1839-40) by his brother Dr. 
John Davy (1791-1868), himself the author of 
several important works. Sir Humphry 
Dav}' possessed a highly poetic temperament 
Coleridge says, indeed, that ' 'if Davy had not 
been the first chemist, \w jirobably would have 
been the first poet of his age." 


I believe that the A-ulgar (^pinion of anglers that 
fish are, as it were, drowned by the play of the 
rod and reel, is perfectly correct ; though to apply 
the word " drowning" to an animal that lives in 
the water, is not quite a fit use of language. 
Fishes respire by passing water — which always 
holds common air in solution — though their gills, 
or bronchial membrane, by the u-se of a system of 
muscles surrounding the fauces, which occasion 
constant contractions and expansions, or opening 
or closing of this membrane ; and the life of the 
fish is dependent on the process, in the same man- 
ner that a quadruped is. on respiring and expiring 

When a fish is hooked in the upper part of the 
moutli, by the strength of the rod applied as a 
lever to the line, it is scarcely possible for him to 
open the gills, as long as this force is exerted, par- 
ticularly when he is moving in a rapid stream ; 
and when he is hooked in the lower jaw, his mouth 
is kept closed by the same application of the 
strength of the rod, so that no aerated water can 
be inspired. Under these circumstances, he is 
quickly deprived of his vital forces : particularly 
when he exhausts his strength by moving in a 
rapid stream. A fish, hooked in a part of the 
mouth where the force of the rod will render his 
efforts to respire unavailing, is much in the same 
state as that of a deer caught round the neck b\- 
the lasso of a South American peon, %\ho gallops 


forwards, dragging liis victim after him, which is 
killed by strangulation in a very short time. 

When fishes are hooked "foul," that is, on the 
outside of the body— as in the fins or tail—they 
will often fight for many hours ; and in such 
cases, very large salmon are seldom caught, as 
they retain their power of breathing unimpaired ; 
and if they do not exhaust themselves by violent 
muscular elforts, they may bid defiance to the 
temper and skill of the fisherman. 

A large salmon, hooked in the upper part of the 
mouth, m the cartilage or bone, will sometimes 
likewise fight for a long while, particularly if he 
keep in the deep and still parts of the river ; for 
he is able to prevent the force of the hook, applied 
by the rod, from interfering with his respiration ; 
and, by a powerful effort, can maintain his place, 
and continue to breathe, in spite of the exertions 
of the angler. A fish, in such a case, is said to be 
"sulk}'." and his instinct, or his sagacity, gener- 
ally enables him to conquer his enemy. It is, 
however, rarely that fishes hooked in the mouth 
are capable of using freelj- the muscles subservient 
to respiration ; and their powers are generally, 
sooner or later, destroyed by suffocation, — 


The laws of nature are all directed by Divine 
Wisdom for the purpose of preserving life, and 
increasing happiness. Pain seems in all cases to 
precede the mutilation or destruction of those 
organs which are essential to vitality, and for the 
t'lid of preserving them ; but the mere process of 
dying seems to be the falling into a deep slumber ; 
and in animals, who have no fear of death de- 
pendent upon imagination, it can hardly be ac- 
companied by very intense suffering. In the 
human being, moral and intellectual motives con- 
stantly operate in enhancing the fear of death, 
which, without these motives in a reasoning being, 
would probably become null, and the love of life 
be lost upon every slight occasion of pain or dis- 
gust. But imagination is creative with respect to 


both these passions, which, if they exist in ani- 
mals, exist independent of reason, or as instincts. 
Pain seems intended by an all- wise Providence 
to prevent the diftsolntion of organs, and cannot 
follow their destruction. I know several instances 
in which the process of death has been observed, 
even to its termination, by good philosophers; 
and the instances are worth repeating : Dr. Cul- 
len, when dying, is said to have faintly articu- 
lated to one of his intimates, *' I wish I had the 
power of writing or speaking ; for then I would 
describe to you how pieassant :i thing it is to die.'' 
— Dr. Black — worn out by age, and a disposition 
to pulmonary hemorrhage, which obliged him to 
live very low — whilst eating his customary meal 
of bread and milk, fell a.sleep, and died in so tran- 
quil a manner that he Jiad not even spilt the con- 
tents of the cup which rested on his knee. And 
the late Sir Charles Blagden, wliilst at asocial 
meal, with his friends, Mons. and Mud. BerthoUet 
and Gay Lussac, died in his chair so quietly, that 
not a drop of the coffee in the cup which he held 
in his hand, was spilt. — Salmonia. 


The doctrine of the materialists was always, 
even in my youth, a cold, heavy, dull, and insup- 
portable doctrine to me, and necessarily tending 
to atheism. When I had heard, with disgust, in 
the dissecting rooms, the plan of the physiologist, 
of the gradual accretion of matter, and its becom- 
ing endowed with irritability, ripening into sensi- 
bility, and acquiring such organs as were neces- 
san' by its own inherent forces, and at last issuing 
into intellectual existence, a walk into the green 
fields or woods, by the banks of rivers, brought 
back my feelings from nature to God. I saw in 
all the powers of matter the instruments of the 
Deity. The sunbeams, the breath of the zephyr, 
awakening animation in forms prepared by divine 
intelligence to receive it, the insensate seed, the 
slumbering eggs which were to be vivified, ap- 
peared, like the new-born animal, works of a di- 
vine mind ; I saw love as the creative principle in 


the material world, and this love only as a divine 
attribute. Then my own mind I felt connected 
with new sensations anil indefinite hopes — a thirst 
for immortaiity ; the great names of other ages 
and of distant nations appeared to me to be still 
living around me, and even in the fancied move- 
ments of the lieroic and the great, I saw, as it 
were, the decrees of the indestructibility of mind. 
These feelings, though generally considered as 
poetical, yet, I think, offer a sound philosophical 
argument in favor of the immortality of the soul. 
In all the habits and instincts of young animals, 
their feelings and movements, may be traced an 
intimate relation to tlieir improved perfect state ; 
their sports have always alfiuities to their modes 
of Imnting or catching their food : and young birds 
even in the nests, show marks of fondness which, 
when their frames are developed, become signs of 
actions necessary to tlie reproduction and preserva- 
tion of the species. The desire of glory, of honor, 
of immortal fame, and of constant knowledge, so 
usual in young persons of well-constituted minds, 
cannot, I think, be other than symptoms of the in- 
finite and progressive nature of the intellect — 
hopes which, as they cannot be gratified here, be- 
long to a frame of mind suited to a nobler state of 

Religion, whether natviral or revealed, has al- 
ways the same beneficial influence on the mind. 
In youth, in health and prosperity, it awakens 
feelings of gratitude and sublime love, and puri- 
fies at the same time that it exalts. But it is in 
misfortune, in sickness, in age, that its effects are 
most truly and beneficially felt ; when submission 
in faith and humble trust in the divine will, from 
duties become pleasures, undecaying sources of 
consolation. Then it creates powers which were 
believed to be extinct ; and gives a freshness to 
the mind, which was supposed to have passed 
away for ever, but which is now renovated as an 
immortal hope. Then it is the Pharos, guiding 
the wave-tossed mariner to his home — as the calm 
and beautiful still basins or fiords, surrounded by 
tranquil groves and pastoral meadows, to the Nor- 


wegian pilot escaping from a heavy storm in the 
North Sea — or as the green and dewy spot, gush- 
ing with fc^untains, to the exhausted and thirsty 
traveler in the midst of the desert. Its influence 
outlives all earthly eujo\"ments, and becomes 
stronger as tlie organs decay and the frame dis- 
solves. It appears as that evening-star of light in 
the horizon of life, which, we are sure, is to l)e- 
come, in another season, a morning-star ; and it 
throws its radiance tlirough the gloom and shad- 
ow of deatli. — Consolations in Travel. 


Our life is like a cloudy sky 'mid mountains, 
When in the bla«t the watery vapors float. 
Now gleams of light pass o'er the lovely hills. 
And make the jnirjjle heath and russet bracken 
Seem lovelier, and the grass of brighter green ; 
Anil now u giant shadow hides them all. 
And thus it is that, in all earthly distance 
On which the sight can fix, still fear and hope, 
Gloom and alternate sunshine, each succeeds. 
So of another and an unknown land 
We see the radiance of the clouds reflected, 
Which is the future life beyond the grave ! 

Be this our trust, that ages (filled with light 
More glorious far than those faint beams which 

In this our feeble twilight) yet to come 
Shall see distinctly what we now but hope : 
The world immutable in which alone 
AVisdom is found, the Light and Life of things — 
The Breath divine, creating Power divine — 
The Chie of which the human intellect 
Is but a type, as feeble as that image 
Of the bright sun seen on the bursting wave — 
Bright, but without distinctness, yet in passing 
Showing its glorious and eternal source. 

Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour 
The flames of life that bounteous Nature gives ; 


The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower, 
The insensate dust awakes, and moves, and lives. 

All speaks, of change : the renovated forms 
Of k)ng-forgotten things aribe again ; 

The light of suns, the breath of angry storms, 
The everlasting motions of the main ; — 

These are but engines of the Eternal Will, 
That one Intelligence, whose potent sway 

Has ever acted, and is acting still, 
While stars and worlds and systems all obey ; 

Without whose power the whole of mortal things 
Were dull, inert, an unharmonious band, 

Silent as are the harp's untuned strings 
Without the touches of the poet's hand. 

A sacred spark, created by his breath. 
The immortal mind of man his image bears ; 

A spirit living 'mid the forms of death, 
Oppressed, but not subdued, by mortal cares ; 

A germ preparing in the Winter's frost 

To rise and bud and blossom in the Spring ; 

An unfledged eagle, by the tempest tossed. 
Unconscious of his future strength of wing ; 

The child of trial, to mortality, 

And all its changeful influences, given ; 

On the green earth decreed to move and die. 
And yet by such a fate prepared for heaven. 

To live in forests, mingled with the whole 
Of natural forms, whose generations rise 

In lovely change, in happy order roll. 
On land, in ocean, in the glittering skies ; — 

Their harmony to trace ; the Eternal Cause 
To know in love, in reverence to adore ; 

To bend beneath the inevitable laws. 

Sinking in death, its human strength no more ; 

Then, as awakening from a dream of pain. 
With joy its mortal feelings to resign ; 


Yet all its living essence to retain, 
The undying energy of strength divine : 

To quit the burdens of its earthly days, 
To give to Nature all her borrowed powers, 

Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays, 
Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers ! 

DAWES, RuFUS, an American poet, born 
at Boston in 1803, died at Washington in 
1859. He entered Harvard College in 1820, 
but did not graduate, in consequence of an 
erroneous accusation of having participated 
in some breach of college discipline. He 
studied law. and was admitted to the bar, but 
did not engage in the practice of his profes- 
sion. He contributed to periodicals and for a 
time was editor of The Emerald, published at 
Baltimore. He published The Valley of the 
Nashaivay, and Other Poems (1830) ; Geral- 
dine, and Miscellaneous Poems (1839) ; and 
Nix's Mate, a historical romance (1840). He 
was a member of the S wedenborgian Church, 
in which he frequently oflSciated as a 


Yes, Still I love thee ! Time, who sets 

His signet on my brow, 
And dims my sunken eye, forgets 

The heart he could not bow ; — 
Where love that cannot perish glows 

For one alas ! that little knows 
How love may sometimes last ; 

Like sunshine wasting in the skies 
When clouds are overcast. 

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose 

Within its robe of light. 
Can never touch a leaf that blows 

Though seeming to the sight ; 
And yet it still will linger there. 
Like hopeless love without despair, 


A snow-drop in the sun ! 
A moment finely exquisite, 
Alas ! but only one. 

I would not have thy married heart 

Think momently of me ; 
Nor would I tear the chords apart 

That bind me so to thee. 
No ! while my thoughts seem pure and mild 
As dew upon the roses wild, 

I would not have thee know 
The stream that seems to thee so still 

Has such a tide below. 

Enough, that in delicious dreams 

I see thee, and forget : 
Enough that when the morning beams 

I feel my ej-elids wet ! 
Yet could I hope, when Time shall fall 
The darkness for creation's pall, 

To meet thee and to love, 
I would not shrink from aught below, 

Nor ask for more above ! 


The laughing Hours have chased away the 

Plucking the stars out from her diadem ; — 
And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace. 
Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the 

Blushing in smiles, and glad as infancy. 
And see, the foolish Moon — but now so vain 
Of borrowed beauty — how she yields her charms. 
And, pale -with envy, steals herself away ! 
The Clouds have put their gorgeous livery on. 
Attendant on the Day ; the mountain-tops 
Have lit their beacons, and the vales below 
Send up a welcoming. No song of birds. 
Warbling to charm the air with melody, 
Floats on the frosty breeze ; yet Nature hath 
The very soul of music in her looks ! 
The sunshine and the shade of poetry. 
I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, 


Temple of Nature ! and look down with awe 
On the wide world beneath lis, dimly seen ! 
Around me crowd the giant sons of earth. 
Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued ; 
Firm as when the first rebellion bade them rise 
Unrifled to the Tliunderer. Now they seem 
A family of mountains, clustering round 
Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching 
To meet the partial glances of the Day. 
Far in the glowing east the flickering light, 
Mellowed by distance, with the blue sky blending, 
Questions the eye with ever- varying forms. 

The Sun comes up ! away the shadows fling 
From the broad hills ; and, hurrying to the west. 
Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. 
Tlie many beauteous mountain-streams leap down. 
Out- welling from the clouds, and sparkling light, 
Dances along with their perennial flow. 
And there is beauty in yon river's path — 
Tlie glad Connecticut ! I know her well 
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms. 
At times she loiters by a ridge of hills 
Sportively hiding ; then again with glee 
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. 
Far as the ej^e can bound, tlie ocean-waves. 
And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes, and woods, 
And all that hold the faculty entranced, 
Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air. 
And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. 

There is an awful stillness in this place, 
A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, 
Till the heart pour its agony in tears. 
But I mvist drink the vision while it lasts ; 
For even now the curling vapors rise. 
Wreathing their cloudy coronals, to grace 
These towering summits— bidding me away. 
But often shall my heart turn back again. 
Thou glorious eminence ! and when oppressed. 
And aching Avith the coldness of the world. 
Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. 

DAWSON, John William, a Canadian ge- 
ologist, naturalist, and author, born at Pic- 
tou, Nova Scotia, in 1820. He was educated 


at the University of Edinburgh, and on his 
return to his native country, engaged in the 
study of the geology and natural history of 
Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. In 1842 he 
accompanied Sir Charles Lyell in his explora- 
tions in Nova Scotia. In 1850 he was appoint- 
ed Superintendent of Education for Nova Sco- 
tia, and in 1855 principal of the McGill Uni- 
versity at Montreal, of which he is now Vice- 
Chancellor. He is the discoverer of the Eo- 
zoon Canadense of the Laurentian limestones, 
the oldest known form of animal life. Besides 
contributing largely to the Proceedings of the 
London Geological Society, he has written 
numerous works on natural history and geol- 
ogy, among which are, Hints to Farmers of 
Nova Scotia (1853) ; Acadian Geology (1855) ; 
Facts and Fancies in Modern Science ; Arch- 
aia : or Studies on the Cosmogony and Natu- 
ral History of the Hebreiv Scriptures (1860) ; 
The Story of the Earth and Man (1872), com- 
bating the Dar Avinian theory ; The Dawn of 
Life, an accoimt of the oldest known fossil 
remains, the Eozoon Canadense (1875); The 
Origin of the World according to Revelation 
and Science (1877) ; Fossil Men and their Mod- 
ern Representatives (1878) ; and TJce Change 
of Life in Geological Time (1880). In 1884 he 
was created a Companion of the Order of St. 
Michael and St. George, and in 1885 was elect- 
ed President of the Royal Society of Canada. 


It is a remarkable and instructive fact that the 
first verse of the Hebrew sacred writings speaks 
of the material universe — speaks of it as a whole, 
and as originating in a power outside of itself. 
The universe, tlien, in the conception of this 
ancient writer, is not eternal. It had a beginning 
— but that beginning in the indefinite an(l by us 
unmeasured past. It did not originate fortuitously, 
or bv any niei'ely accidental conflict of self- 


existent material atoms, but by an act— an act of 
will on the part of a Being designated by that 
name which among all the Semitic peoples repre- 
sented the ultimate, eternal, inscrutable source of 
power, and object of awe and veneration. With 
the simplicity and child-like faith of an archaic 
age, the writer makes no attempt to combat any 
objections or difficulties with which this great 
fundamental truth may be assailed. He feels its 
axiomatic force as the basis of all true religion and 
sound philosophy, and the ultimate fact which 
must ever bar our further progress in the investi- 
gation of the origin of things— the production 
from non-existence of the material universe by 
the eternal self -existent God. 

It did not concern liim to know what might be 
the nature of that unconditioned Self-existence ; 
for though, like our ideas of Space and Time in- 
comprehensible, it must be assumed. It did not 
concern him to know how matter and force sub- 
sist, or what may be the difference between a ma- 
terial universe cognizable by our senses and the 
absolute want of all the phenomena of such a uni- 
verse or of whatever may be their basis and es- 
sence. Such questions can never be answered, 
yet the succession of these phenomena must have 
had a commencement somewhere in time. How 
simple and how gi-and is his statement ! How 
plain and yet how profound its teachings. 

It is evident that the writer gi-asps firmly the 
essence of the question as to the beginning of 
things, and covers the whole ground which ad- 
vanced scientific or pliilosophical speculation can 
yet traverse. That the universe must have had a 
beginning no one now needs to be told. If any 
philosophical speculator ever ti-uly held that there 
has been an endless succession of phenomena, 
science has now completely negatived the idea by 
showing us the beginning of all things that we 
know in the present universe, and by establishing 
the strongest probabilities that even its ultimate 
atoms could not have been eternal. But the 
question remains — If there was a beginning, what 
existed in that beginning? To this question many 


martial and imperfect answers have been given, 
)ut our ancient record includes them all. 

If any one-should say, " In the beginning was 
nothing." Yes, says Genesis ; there was, it is 
true, nothing of present matter and arrangements 
of nature. Yet all was present potentially in the 
will of the Creator. 

" In the beginning were atoms," says another. 
Yes, says Genesis ; but they were created ; and so 
says modern science, and must say of ultimate 
particles determined by weight and measure, and 
incapable of modification in their essential proper- 
ties— "They have the properties of a manufac- 
tured article." 

" In the beginning were forces," says yet an- 
other. True, says Genesis ; but all forces are one 
in origin — they represent merely the fiat of the 
Eternal and Self -existent. So says science, that 
force must in the ultimate resort be an "expres- 
sion of Will." 

" In the beginning was Elohim," adds our old 
Semitic authority, and in him are the absolute and 
eternal thought and will, the Creator from whom 
and by whom and in whom are all things. 

Thus the simple familiar words, " In the begin- 
ning God created the heavens and the earth," an- 
swer all possible questions as to the origin of 
things, and include all under the conception of 
theism. Let us now look at these pregnant words 
more particularly as to their precise import and 

The divine personality expressed by the Hebrew 
Elohim may be fairly said to include all that can 
be claimed for the pantheistic conception of " dt/- 
naniis,^' or universal material power. Lange gives 
this as included in the term Elohim, in his discus- 
sion of this term in his book on Genesis. It has 
been aptly said that if, physically speaking, the 
fall of a sparrow produces a gravitative effect that 
extends throughout the universe, there can be no 
reason why it should be unknown to God. God 
is thus everywhere, and always. Yet he is every- 
where and always present as a personality know- 
ing and willing. From his thought and will in 


the beginning proceeded the universe. By him it 
was created. . . . 

The material universe was brought into exist- 
ence in the " beginning " — a term evidently indef- 
inite as far as regards any known epoch, and im- 
plying merelj' priority to all other recorded events. 
It can not be the first day. for there is no ex- 
pressed connection, and tlie work of the first day 
is distinct from that of tlie beginning. It can not 
be a general term for the whole six days, since 
these are separated from it by that chaotic or 
formless state to which we are next introduced. 
The beginning, therefore, is the threshold of crea- 
tion — the line that separates tlie old tenantless 
condition of space from the world-crowded gal- 
axies of the existing universe. The only other in- 
formation respecting it that we have in Scripture 
is in that fine descriptive poem in Proverbs viii. , 
in which the Wisdom of God personified — who 
may be lield to represent the Almighty Word, 
or Logos, introduced in the formula " God said," 
and afterward referred to in Scripture as the 
manifested or conditioned Deity, the Mediator be- 
tween man and the otherwise inaccessible Divin- 
ity, the agent in the work of creation as well as in 
that of redemption — narrates the origin of all 
created things : 

" Jehovah possessed lue, the beginning of his way, 
Before his work of old. 
I was set up from everlasting, 
From the beginning, before the earth was ; 
When there were no deeps I was brought forth, 
When there were no fountains abounding in water." 

The beginning here precedes the creation of the 
earth, as well as of the deep which encompassed 
its surface in its earliest condition. The begin- 
ning, in this point of view, stretches back from the 
origin of the world into the depths of eternity. It 
is to us emphatically the beginning, because it 
witnessed the birth of our material system : but 
to the eternal Jehovah it was but the beginning of 
a great series of liis operations, and we have no 
information of its absolute diu-ation. From the 
time when God began to create the celestial oi'bs, 


until that time when it could be said that he had 
createil the lieaveiis and the earth, countless ages 
may have railed along, and myriads of worlds 
may have passed through various stages of exist- 
ence, and the creation of our planetary system 
may have been one of the last acts of that long be- 
ginning. . . . 

Fairly regarding, then, this ancient form of 
words, we may hold it as a clear, concise, and ac- 
curate enunciation of an ultimate doctrine of the 
origin of things, which with all our increased 
knowledge of the history of the earth we are not 
in a position to replace with any thing better or 
more probable. On the other hand, this sublime 
dogma of creation leaves us perfectly free to in- 
terrogate nature for ourselves, as to all that it can 
reveal of the duration and progress of the creative 
work. But the positive gain wdiich comes from 
this ancient formula goes far beyond thf-se nega- 
tive qualities. If received, this one word of the 
Old Testament is sufficient to deliver us forever 
from the suijerstitious dread of nature, and to pre- 
sent it to us as neither self-existent nor omnipo- 
tent, but as the mere handivi'ork of a spiritual Cre- 
ator to whom w-e are kin ; as not a product of 
chance or caprice, but as the result of a definite 
plan of the All-wise : as not a congeries of uncon- 
nected facts and processes, but as a cosmos, a 
well-ordei-ed though complex machine, designed 
bj- Him who is the Almighty and the supreme ob- 
ject of reverence. Had this verse alone constitut- 
ed the wdiole Bible, this one utterance w^ould, 
wherever known and received, have been an ines- 
timable boon to mankind ; proclaiming deliver- 
ance to the captives of every form of nature- 
worship and idolatry, and fixing that idea of unity 
of plan in the universe which is the fruitful and 
stable root of all true progress in science. We 
ow^e profound thanks to the old Hebrew prophet 
for these words — woi'ds which have broken from 
the necks of once superstitious Aryan races chains 
more galling than those of Egyptian bondage. — 
Tlie Origin of the World. 


DAY, Thomas, an English author, born in 
174S, (lii'd ill 17.S9. He was I'ducatcd at the 
ChartiT House, and at C^orpus L'luisti Col- 
lege, Oxford; studied law in the Middle Tem- 
ple, and was called tt»the bar, but never prac- 
ticed. He spent .several years on the Conti- 
nent, ac<niaiiiting himself with the life and 
necessities of tht> poor. He took two young 
girls from the foiuidling hospitid and educat- 
ed them, with the intention of marrying one 
of them; but althou^^h the scheme of educa- 
tion was successful, the marriage project 
failed. In 1778 Day married Miss Esther Mil- 
nes, a lady of Yorkshire, and retired to his 
estiites for tlie remainder of his life. He 
was an eliKjuent speaker on political and 
other subjects, and wrote two poems, 77N'i>e- 
voted Lpgiunn ilTTG), and The Desolation of 
America (1777), showing his sympathy with 
the American Colonies. In conjunction with 
Mr. Bicknell, who married one of the girls 
educated by Day, he wrote a poem to excite 
compassion for the West Indian slaves. His 
literary reputiition rests upon Tlie History of 
Sandford and Merton (17b3-9j, a book for 
boys incidcating courage, temperance, inde- 
pendence, generosity, humanity, which is one 
of the most popular books ever written for the 
young. He also published a shorter work of 
fiction. The History of Little Jack. Day was 
killed by a kick from a horse which he was 
endeavoring to train by means of gentle treat- 
ment. His wife, who survived him two 
years, never afterwards left her darkened 

Master Merton became acquainted with this 
httle boy in the following manner : — As he and 
the maid were waikin.Lj in the fields on a fine sum- 
niers morning, divertinj^ themselves with gather- 
ing ditferent kinds of wild. flowers, and running 


after butterflies, a lar^r nuke suddenly started up 
from among some louj,' grass, and roiled itself 
round little Tommy's leg. The fright they were 
both in at this accident may be imagined : the 
maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, 
in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the 
spot where he was standing. Harry, who happen- 
ed to be walking near, came running up, and ask- 
ed what was the matter. Tommy, who was sob- 
bing most piteously, could not tind words to tell 
liitn, but pointed to his leg. and made Harry sen- 
sible of what had happened. Harry, who, though 
young, was a boy of a most courageous spirit, told 
him not to be frightened ; and instantly seizing 
the snake by the neck with as much dexterity as 
resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg, and threw 
bin) off to a great di.stauce. Just as tliis happen- 
ed, Mrs. Merton and all the family, alarmed by 
the servant's cries, came running breathless to the 
place, as Tommy was recovering his spirits, and 
thanking his brave little deliverer. Her lii-st emo- 
tions were to catch her darling up in her arms, 
and, after giving him a thousand kisses, to ask liim 
whether he had received any hurt. 
. •' No," said Tommy, " mdeed I have not, mam- 
ma ; but I believe that nasty ugly beast would 
have bitten me. if that little boy had not come 
and pulled him otf." 

'•And who are you, my dear," said she, "to 
w hom we are all so much obliged ? " 

'• Hany Sandford, madam." 

" Well, my cliild, jrou are a dear, brave little 
creature, and you shall go home and dine 
with us.'' 

'•No, thank j'ou, madam; my father will 
want me." 

" And who is your father, my sweet boy?" 

"Farmer Sandford, madam, that lives at the 
bottom of the hill." 

'• Well, my dear, you shall be my child hence- 
forth : wiU you?" 

" If you please, madam, if I may have my own 
father and mother too." 

Mrs. Merton instantly dispatched a servs.nt to 


the farmer's ; and taking little Harry by the 
hand, she led him to the mansion, where she 
found Mr. Merton, whom she entertained with a 
long account of Tommy's danger, and Harry's 
bravery. Harry was now in a new scene of life. 
He was carried through costly a])artments, where 
everything that could please the eye, or contrib- 
ute to convenience, was assembled. He saw large 
looking-glasses, in gilded frames, carved tables 
and chairs, curtains of the finest silk ; and the 
very plates and knives and forks were silver. At 
dinner, he was placed close to Mrs. Merton, who 
took care to supply him with the choicest bits, 
and engaged him to eat with the most endearing 
kindness ; but, to the astonishment of everybody, 
he appeared neither pleased nor surprised at any- 
thing ae eaw. Mrs. Merton could not conceal her 
disappointment ; for, as she had always been ac- 
customed to a great degree of finery herself, she 
had expected it should make the same impression 
upon everybody else. At last, seeing him eye a 
small silver cup with great attention, out of which 
he had been drinking, she asked him whether he 
should not like to have such a fine thing to drink 
out of, and added, that, though it was Tommy's 
cup, she was sure he would with great pleasure 
give it to his little friend. 

"Yes, that I will," says Tommy; "for you 
know, mamma, I have a much finer one than that, 
made of gold, besides two large ones made of 

"Thank you with all my heart," said little 
Harry ; ' ' but I will not rob you of it, for I have a 
much better one at home." 

" How I" said Mrs. Merton ; " does your father 
eat and drink out of silver ? " 

" I don 't know, madam, what you call this ; but 
we drink at home out of long things made of horn, 
just such as the cows wear upon their heads." 

"The child is a simpleton, I tliink, " said Mrs. 
Merton. "And why are they better than silver 

" Because," said Harry, "they never make us 


" Make you uneasy, my child ! " said Mrs. Mer- 
ton ; "what do you mean ? "' 

"Why, madam, when the man threw that great 
thing down, which looks just like this, I saw that 
you were very sorry about it, and looked as thougli 
you had been just ready to drop. Now, ours at 
home are thrown about by all the family, and no- 
body minds it." 

" I protest," said Mrs. Merton to her husband. 
" I do not know what to say to this boy, he makes 
such strange observations."' 

The fact was, that during dinner one of the serv- 
ants had let fall a large piece of plate, which, as it 
was very valuable, had made Mrs. Merton not only 
look very uneasy, but give the man a severe scold- 
ing for his carelessness. After dinner, Mrs. Mer- 
ton filled a large glass of wine, and giving it to 
Harry, bade him drink it up ; but he thanked her, 
and said he was not thirst.v. 

"But, my dear," said she, " this is very sweet 
and pleasant, and as you are a good boy, you may 
drink it up." 

"Ay! but, madam, Mr. Barlow says that we 
must only eat when we are hungry, and drink 
when we are thirsty : and that we must eat and 
drink only such things as are easily met with : 
otherwise we shall grow peevish and vexed when 
we can't get them." . . . 

" Upon my word," said Mr. Merton, " this little 
man is a great philosopher ; and we should be 
much obliged to Mr. Barlow, if he would take our 
Tommy under his care : for he grows a great boy, 
and it is time that he should know something. 
What say you. Tommy, should you like to be a 
philosopher ? " 

" Indeed, papa, I don't know what a philosopher 
is ; but I should like to be a king : because he 's 
finer and richer than anybody else, and has no- 
thing to do, and everybody waits upon him, and is 
afraid of him." 

" Well said, my dear," replied Mrs. Merton : 
and rose and kissed him ; "and a king you de- 
serve to be with such a spirit ; and here 's a glass 
of wine for you for making such a pretty answer. 


And should not you like to be a king too, little 
Harry ? " 

" Indeed, madam, I don't know what that is; but 
I hope 1 shall soon be big enough to go to plough, 
and get my own living ; and then I shall want no- 
body to wait upon me," 

" What a difference there is between the chil- 
dren of farmers and gentlemen ! " whispered Mrs. 
Merton to her husband, looking rather contempt- 
uously upon Harry. 

•' lam not sure," said Mr. Merton, "that for 
this time the advantage is on the side of our son. 
But sliould you not like to be rich, my dear?" said 
he, turning to Harry. 

" No, indeed, sir."' 

"No, simpleton!" said Mrs. Merton; "and 
why not?" 

"Because the only rich man lever saw, is 
Squire Chase, who lives hard by ; and he rides 
among people's corn, and breaks down their hedg- 
es, and shoots their poultry, and kills their dogs, 
and lames their cattle, and abuses the poor ; and 
they say he does all this because he 's rich ; but 
everybody hates him, though they dare not tell 
him so to his face ; and I would not be hated for 
anything in the world." 

"But should you not like to have a fine laced 
coat, and a coach to carry you about, and servants 
to wait upon you ? " 

"As to that, madam, one coat is as good as 
another, if it will but keep one warm ; and I don't 
want to ride, because I can walk wherever I 
choose ; and. as to servants, I should have nothing 
for them to do if I had a hundred of them." 

Mrs. Merton continued to look at him vnth a 
sort of contemptuous astonishment, but did not 
ask him any more questions. — Sandford and 


"Pray, Sir," said Tommy, " what is a constella- 
tion ? " 

"Persons," answered Mr. Barlow, "who first 
began to observe the heavens as you do now, ob- 


served certain stars remarkable either for their 
brightness or position. To these they gave par- 
ticular names, that they might the more easily 
know them again, and discourse of them to 
others ; and these particular clusters of stars, thus 
joined together, and named, they term constella- 
tions. But, come, Harry, you are a little farmer, 
and can certainly point out to us Charles's Wain." 

Harry then looked up to the sky, and pointed 
out seven very briglit stars towards the north. 

"You are right." said Mr. Barlow; "four of 
these stars have put the common people in mind 
of the four wheels of a wagon, and the three 
others of the horses ; therefore, they have called 
them by this name, Now, Tommy, look well at 
these, and see if you can find any seven stars in 
the whole sky that resemble them in their posi- 

" Indeed, Sir, I do not think I can." 

" Do you not think, then, that you can find 
them again ? " 

" I w^ill try, Sir. — Now, I will take my eye off, 
and look another way. — I protest I cannot find 
them again. — Oh I I believe there they are. — Pray, 
Sir (pointing with his finger), is not that Charles's 

"You are right: and, by remembering these 
stars, you may very easily observe those which 
are next to them, and learn their names too, till 
you are acquainted with the whole face of the 

" That is, indeed, very surprising. I will show 
my mother Cliarles's Wain the first time I go 
home : I dare say she has never observed it." 

" But look on the two stars which compose the 
hinder wheel of the wagon, and raise your eye 
towards the top of the sky : do you not see a very 
bright star, that seems almost, but not quite, in a 
line with the two others?" 

"Yes, Sir, I see it plainly." 

" That is called the Pole-star; it never moves 
from its place, and by looking full at it, you may 
always find the North." 


" Then, if I turn my face towards that star, I 
always look to the North.'' 

"You are right." 

"Then 1 shall turn my back to the South." 

" You are right again ; and now cannot you 
find the East and West?" 

"Is it not the East where the sun rises? " 

" Yes ; but there is no sun to direct you now." 

"Then, Sir, I cannot find it out." 

" Do not you know, Harry ?" 

" I believe, sir," said Harry, "that if you turn 
j^our face to the North, the East will be on the 
right hand, and the West on tlie left." 

"That is very clever indeed." said Tommy : "so 
then, by knowing the Pole-star, I can always find 
north, east, west, and south." — Sandford and 


" Harry," said Mr. Barlow, " do you tell Master 
Merton the story of your being lost upon the great 

"You must know, Master Tommy," replied 
Harry, "that I have an uncle who lives about 
three miles off, across the great moor that we have 
sometimes walked upon. Now, my father — as I 
am in general pretty well acquainted with the 
roads — often sends me with messages to my uncle. 
One evening I got there so late, that it was hardly 
possible to reach home again before it was quite 
dark : it was at that time in the month of Octo- 
ber. My uncle wished me very much to stay at 
his house all night ; but that was not proper for 
me to do, because my father had ordered me to 
come back ; so I set out as soon as I possibly 
could ; but just as I had reached the heath the 
evening grew extremely dark." 

"And were not you frightened to find yoiirself 
all alone upon such a dismal place? " 

" No ; I knew the worst that could happen 
would be that I should stay there all night ; and 
as soon as ever the morning should shine, I could 
find my way home. However, by the time that I 
had reached the middle of the heath, there came on 


such a violent tempest of wind, blowing full in 
my face, accompanied with such a shower, that I 
found it impossible to continue niy way. So I 
quitted the track, which is never very easy to find, 
and ran aside to a holly-bush that was growing at 
some distance, in order to seek a little shelter. 
There I lay, very conveniently, till the storm was 
almost over ; then I arose, and attempted to con- 
tinue my way ; but, unfortunately, I missed the 
track, and lost myself." 

"That was a very dismal thing indeed," said 

" I wandered about a long time ; but still to no 
purpose. I had not a single mark to direct me, 
because the common is so extensive, and so bare 
of either trees or houses, that one may walk for 
miles and see nothing but heath and furze. Some- 
times I tore my legs in scrambling tlu'ough great 
thickets of furze : now and then I plunged into a 
hole full of water, and should have been drowned 
if I had not learned to swim ; so that, at last, I 
was about to give it up in despair, when looking 
on one side, I saw a light at a little distance, 
which seemed to be a candle and lantern that 
somebody was carrying across the moor." 
• " Did not that give jou very great comfort ? " 

" You shall hear," answered Harry, smiling. — 

"At first I was doubtful whether I should go up 
to it ; but I considered that it was not worth any- 
body's pains to hurt a poor boy like me ; and that 
no person who was out on any ill design would 
probably choose to carry a light. So I determined 
boldly to go up to it and inquire the way." 

' ' And did the person with the candle and lan- 
tern direct you ? " 

" I began walking up towards it," answered 
Harry, "when immediately the light, which I at 
first observed on my right hand, moving slowly 
along by my side, changed its direction, and went 
directly before me, with about the same degree of 
swiftness. I thought this very strange ; but I still 
continued the chase, and, just as I thought I had 
approached very near, I tumbled into another pit, 
full of water." 


"That was very unlucky indeed." 

" Well, I scrambled out, and very luckily on the 
same side with the light ; which 1 began to follow 
again, but with as little success as ever. I had 
now wandered many miles about the common ; I 
knew no more where I was than ]'. 1 had been set 
down upon an unknown country ; 1 had no hopes 
of finding my way home, unless I could reach this 
wandering light: and though I could not conceive 
that the person who carried it could know of my 
being so near, he seemed to act as though he were 
determined to avoid me. However I was resolv- 
ed to make one attempt, and therefore I began to 
run as fast as I was able, hallooing out at the 
same time to the person that I thought before me 
to entreat him to stop." 

" And did he?" inquired Tommy. 

" Instead of that, the light, which had before 
been moving along at a slow and easy pace, now 
began to dance as it were before me, ten times 
faster than before ; so that, instead of overtaking 
it, I found myself farther and farther behind. Still, 
however, I ran on, till I unwarily sank up to the 
middle in a large bog ; out of which I at last 
scrambled with very great difficulty. Surprised 
at this, and not conceiving that any human being 
could pass over such a bog as this, I determined 
to pursue it no longer. But now I was wet and 
weary ; the clouds had indeed rolled away, and 
the moon and stars began to shine. I looked 
around me, and could discern nothing but a wide 
barren country, without ao much as a tree to shel- 
ter me, or any creature in sight. I listened in 
hopes of hearing a sheep-bell, or the barking of a 
dog ; but nothing met my ear, except the shrill 
whistling of the wind, which blew so cold and 
bleak along that open country, that it chilled me 
to the very heart. It this situation I stopped 
awhile to consider what I should do ; and raising 
my eyes by accident to the sky, the first object I 
beheld was that very constellation of Charles's 
Wain ; and above I discerned the Pole-star shining, 
as it were, from the very top of heaven. Instantly 
a thought came into my mind : I considered, that, 


when I had beeen walking along the road which led 
towards m}' uncle's house, I had of ten observed the 
Pole-star full before me ; therefoi-e it occurred to 
me, that if I tui-ned my back exactly upon it, and 
went straight forward in a contrary direction, it 
must lead me towards my fathers house. As soon 
as I had formed this resolution, I began to execute 
it, I was persuaded I should now escape, and 
therefore, forgetting my fatigue, I rau along as 
briskly as though I had but then set out. Nor 
was I disappointed; for though I could see no tracks, 
yet, taking the greatest care always to go on in 
that direction, the moon afforded me light enough 
to avoid the pits and bogs, which are found in vari- 
ous parts of that wild moor ; and when I had 
traveled, as I imagined, about three miles. I heard 
the barking of a dog, which gave me double vigor ; 
and going on a little farther, came to some inclos- 
ures at the skirts of the common, which I knew ; 
so that I then with ease found my way home, after 
having almost despaired of being so fortunate." 

"Indeed," exclaimed Tommy, "then the 
knowledge of the Pole-star was of very great use 
to you. I am determined I will make myself ac- 
quainted with all the stars in the heavens. But 
did you ever find out what that light was, which 
flanced before you in so extraordinary a man- 

" When I came home, my father told me it was 
what the common people call a Jack-o'-the-lantern; 
and Mr. Barlow has since informed me, that these 
things are only vapors, which rise out of the earth 
in moist and fenny places, although they have 
that bright appearance ; and therefore told me 
that many people, hke me, who have taken them 
for a lighted candle, have followed them, as I did, 
into bogs and ditches." — Sandford and Merton. 

De AMICIS, Edmondo, an Italian author, 
born at Oneglia, in 1846. He was educated 
at Cuneo, Turin, and Modena. He then en- 
tered the army, and in 1867 was established 
at Florence as director of the Italia Militaire. 
On the occupation of Rome by the troops of 


Victor Emanuel, he quitted the army, and 
gave himself to literary work. Among his 
works are La Vita Militaire (1868) ; Ricordo 
deZ 1870-71; a volume of A'bt'eZ/e (1872), con- 
taining Gli Amici di Collegia. Camilla Furio, 
Un gran Giorno, Alberto, Fortezza, and La 
Casa Paterna; several interesting volumes 
of travels and notes on different countries, 
<Sipam (1873), Notes on London (1874); Hol- 
land (1874); Constantinople (1878); Morocco 
(1879) ; and Notes on Paris (1879). These have 
been translated into several languages. He 
has also published a volume of Poesie (1881). 


The vision of this morning has vanished. The 
Constantinople of Hght and beauty has given 
place to a monstrous city, scattered about over an 
infinity of hills and valleys ; it is a labyrinth of 
human ant-hills, cemeteries, ruins, and solitudes ; 
a confusion of civilization and barbarism which 
presents an image of all the cities uj)on earth, and 
gathers to itself all the aspects of human life. It 
is really but the skeleton of a great city, of which 
the smaller part is walls and the rest an enormous 
agglomeration of barracks, an interminable Asiat- 
ic encampment ; in which swarms a population 
that has never been counted, of people of every 
race and every religion. It is a great city in pro- 
cess of transformation, composed of ancient cities 
that are in decay, new cities of j'esterday, and 
other cities now being born ; everything is in con- 
fusion ; on every side are seen the traces of gigan- 
tic works, mountains pierced, hills cut dow^n, 
houses leveled to the ground, great streets de- 
signed ; an immense mass of rubbish and remains 
of conflagiations upon ground forever tormented 
by the hand of man. There is a disorder, a con- 
fusion of the most incongruous objects, a succes- 
sion of the strangest and most unexpected sights, 
that make one's head turn rountl ; jou go to the 
end of a fine street, it is closed by a ravine or preci- 
pice ; you come out of the theatre to find your- 


self in the midst of tombs ; you climb to the top 
of a hill, to find a forest under your feet, and a 
city on the hill ojjposite to you ; you turn sudden- 
ly to look at the qxiarter you have just traversed, 
and you find 'it at the bottom of a deep gorge, 
half hidden in trees ; you turn towards a house, it 
is a port ; you go up a street, there is no more 
city; only a deserted defile from which nothing 
but the sky is visible ; cities start forth, hide them- 
selves, rise above your head, under your feet, be- 
hind your back, far and near, in the sun, in the 
shade, among groves, on the sea ; take a step in 
advance, behold and immense panorama ; take a 
step backward, there is nothing to be seen ; lift 
your eyes, a thousand minarets ; descend one 
step, they are all gone. The streets, bent into in- 
finite angles, wind about among small hills, are 
rai.sed on terraces, skirt ravines ; pass under aque- 
ducts, break into alleys, run down steps, through 
bushes, rocks, ruins, sand-hills. Here and there, 
the great city takes as it were, a breathing time in 
the country, and then begins again, thicker, live- 
lier, more highly colored ; here it is a plain, there 
itclimbs. farther on it rushes downwards, disperses, 
and again crowds together ; in one place it 
smokes and is land, in another sleeps ; now it is 
. all red, now all white, again all gold-colors, and 
further on it presents the aspect of a mountain of 
flowers. The elegant city, the village, the open 
country, the gardens, the port, the desert, the 
market, the burial place, alternate — without end, 
rising one above the other, in steps, so that at 
some points these embrace at one glance, all the 
diversities of a province ; an infinity of fantastic 
outlines are drawn everywhere upon the sky and 
water, so thickly and riclily designed, and with 
such a wondrous variety of architecture, that 
they cheat the eye, and seem to be mingling and 
twisting themselves together. In the midst of 
Turkish houses, rise European palaces ; behind 
the minaret stands the bell-tower ; above the ter- 
race, the dome, beside the dome, the battlemented 
wall ; the Chinese roofs of kiosks hang over the 
fagades of theatres ; the grated balconies of the 


harem confront the plate glass window ; Moorish 
lattices look upon railed terraces ; niches with the 
Madonna within, are set beneath Arabian arches ; 
sepulchres are in the courtyards, and towers 
among tlie laborers" cabins ; mosques, synagogues, 
Greek churches, Catholic cliurches, Armenian 
churches, rise one above the other, amid a confu- 
sion of vanes, cypresses, umbrella pines, fig and 
plane-trees, that stretch their branches over the 
roofs — an indescribable architecture, apparently 
of expediency, lends itself to the caprices of the 
ground, with a crowd of houses cut into points, 
in tlie form of triangular towers, of erect and 
overtiu'ned pyramids, surrounded with bridges, 
ditches, props, gatliered together like the broken 
fragments of a mountain. 

At every hundred paces all is changed. Here 
you are in a suburb of Marseilles, and it is an Asi- 
atic village ; again, a Greek quarter ; again, a sub- 
urb of Trebizond. Bj' the tongues, by the faces, 
by the aspect of the houses, you recognize that 
the country is changed. There points of France, 
strips of Italy, fragments of England, relics of 
Russia. Upon the immense fagade of the city is 
represented in architecture, and in columns, the 
great struggle that is being fought out, between 
the Christians that reconquer and the children of 
Islam, that defend with all their strength, the sa- 
cred soil. Stamboul. once a Turkish city only, is 
now assailed on every side by Christian quarters, 
which slowlj- eat into it along the shores of the Gold- 
en Horn and the Sea of Marmora ; on the other side 
the conquest proceeds with fury ; churches, pal 
aces, hospitals, public gardens, factories, schools, 
are crushing the Mussulman quarters, overwhelm- 
ing the cemeteries, advancing from hill to lull, and 
already vaguely designing upon the distracted 
land the outlines of a great city, that will one day 
cover the European shore of the Bosphorus, as 
Stamboul now covers the shore of the Golden 

But from these general observations the mind 
is constantly distracted by a thousand new things ; 
there is a convent of DerAoshes in one street, a 


Moorish barrack in another, and Turkish cafes, 
bazaars, fountains, aqueducts, at every turn. In 
one quarter of an hour you must change your man- 
ner of proceeding ten times. You go down, you 
climb up, you jump down a declivity, ascend a 
stone staircase, sink in the mud and clamber over 
a hundi-ed obstacles, make your way now through 
the crowd, now through the bushes, now through 
a forest of rags hung out ; now you hold your nose, 
and anon breathe waves of perfumed air. From 
the glowing light of an elevated open space 
whence can be seen the Bosphorus, Asia, and the 
infinite sky, you drop by a few steps into the 
gloom and t)bscurity of a network of alleys, 
flanked by houses falling to ruin, and strewn with 
stones like the bed of a rivulet. From the fresh 
and perfumed shade of trees, into suffocating 
dust and overpowering sun ; from places full of 
noise and color, into sepulchral recesses, where a 
human voice is never heard ; from the divine 
Orient of our dreams, into another Orient, gloomy, 
dirty, decrepit, that gradually takes possession of 
the imagination. After a few hours spent in this 
way, should any one suddenly ask what is Con- 
stantinople like? You could only strike your 
hand upon your forehead, and try t(> still the tem- 
pest of thoughts. Constantinople is a Babjlon, a 
world, a chaos. Beautiful? Wonderfully beau- 
tiful. Ugly? — It is horrible ! — Did you like it? 
Madly. Would you live in it ? How can I tell ! 
— who could say that he would willingly live in 
another planet? You go back to your inn, full of 
enthusiasm, and disgust ; bewildered, delighted, 
and with your head wliirling, as if cerebral con- 
gestion had begun, and your agitation gradually 
quiets down into a profound prostration and mor- 
tal tedium. You have lived through several years 
in a few hours — and feel old and and exhausted. — 

DEEMS, Charles Force, an American 
clergyman and author, barn in Baltimore, in 
1820. He was educated at Dickinson College, 
from which he graduated in 1839. He then 


went to North Carolina as agent for the 
American Bible Society. In 1840 he became 
Professor of Logic and Rhetoric in the Uni- 
versity of North Carolina. After five years 
in this professorship, and one year as Pro- 
fessor of Natural Science in Randolph-Macon 
College, Virginia, he became a preacher at 
New Berne, N. C. In 1846 he became Presi- 
dent of the Greensborough Female College, N. 
C, which post he held for five years. Prom 
1854 to 1858 he held a pastorate, and was then 
appointed Presiding Elder of Wilmington and 
New Berne districts. In 1865 he went to New 
York, and was soon chosen pastor of the 
Church of the Strangers. He is the author 
of many sermons, and of several volumes, 
among which are The Home Altar; JVhat 
Noiv f addressed to young girls just entering 
on womanhood ; Weights and Wrings (1878) ; 
Jesus, a work on the life of Christ, published 
in 1880; and Lesson in the Closet (1882). 


There has always been among men a measuring 
of the useful against the beautiful, as though they 
were antagonistic, as though the useful were not 
the beautiful in every-day working dress, and as 
though the beautiful were not the useful in per- 
fumed garments of glory. And so they have 
strictly begi'udged the time and money and space 
necessary for the existence of the beautiful, as if 
that were so much abstracted from the heritage 
of humanity. Really, and in God's sight, nothing 
is more useful than the beautiful. He will not 
exist without it. He turns His holy eyes nowhere 
that beauty is not. In those very material things 
which seem loathsome to us He perceives, and to 
the microscopic eyes of Science, and to the tele- 
scopic eyes of Poetry He reveals a thousand glorious 
beauties. . . . 

Your practical men are kept in sufficient ani- 
mation to be practical by the beauty which is 
about them. They do not know it any more thau 


the flower knows that it owes its life as well as its 
beauty to the sun. Strike out all the beautiful 
from the world, leave us only the useful — the 
manifestly useful — and we should lose all elasticity 
out of our lives, all strength out of our purpose, 
all energy out of our arms. It is the thousand- 
fold beauty, meeting our eyes at every turn, that 
saves us. It is what cost so much as Mary's pound 
of spikenard, poured forth in what seems to be 
such a waste to eyes like Judas's, which fills the 
world with odor, and comes to be monumental, 
when ledgers and bank-books are clean forgotten. 
It is delightful to have something done without 
regard to the returns to the doer, to have some- 
thing spontaneous, ample, gloriously useless ; 
thousands spent for the mere pleasure of spending 
it on others ; to have the savings of years bottled 
in a flask, and then pour it forth on feet and 
head that will be dead in a week ; and then break 
the flask. To some it seems like a criminal waste 
to put all the skill and labor of a lifetime on a few 
feet of canvas, while the painter can scarcely get 
bread, and then give that canvas to the world. 
But it will impart pleasure to thousands ; and to 
be happy is of religion, and to create happiness is 
of piety. Let men be like God, lavish toward 
God as God is lavish toward men. Pour out your 
money on the beautiful. Encourage the workers 
in the beautiful. Do not be afraid that having all 
your lives had the reputation of being practical, 
you should now be suspected of being a fool for 
spending your money on the unusef ul. You who 
are rich ought to provide the beautiful for your- 
selves and for the jyoor.— Religion in Beauty. 

DEFOE. Daniel, an English author in poli- 
tics and fiction, born in 1661, died in 1731. 
He was the son of a butcher of St GUes, 
Cripplegate. His surname was Foe, and it 
was not until he was about forty years of age, 
that he changed his signature from D. Foe to 
Defoe. He was intended for tlie dissenting 
ministry, and spent five years in the dissent- 


ing academy at Newington Green where he 
acquired a good knowledge of the classics and 
also received special training in his own lan- 
guage, all dissertations being written, and 
all disputations held in Enghsh. He after- 
wards acquired a knowledge of French, 
Italian, and Spanish. In 1680 he was nomi- 
nated a Presbyterian minister, but did not 
choose to follow that vocation. He became 
a writer of political pamphlets, the earliest of 
which identified as his is entitled A Neiv 
Discovery of an Old Intrigue, a Satire leveled 
at Treachery and Ambition. Towards the 
end of 1685 became a hose-factor. At the end 
of seven years after setting up in business, 
he became bankrupt, and fled to Bristol, 
where he compounded with his creditors. 
Afterwards, when again prosperous, he hon- 
orably discharged his debts in full. A pam- 
phlet, The Englishman's choice and true In- 
terests, in the vigorous Prosecution of the War 
against France, prociiredhim an appointment 
as Accountant to the Commissioners of the 
Glass Duty, which post he held until the duty 
was abolished in 1699. He also set up a 
manufactory of bricks and pantiles at Til- 
bury. During these years he wrote numer- 
ous pamphlets, most of them being of a poHt- 
ical character. 

In 1701, when Louis XIV. of France re- 
solved to accept the legacy of the Spanish 
crown to his grandson, the Duke of Anjou, 
Defoe produced a pamphlet. The Two Great 
Questions Considered: I. Wliat the French 
King icill do in respect to the Spanish Mon- 
archy. II. What Measures the English ought 
to take, arguing that if Louis accepted the 
crown, England should combine with the 
Emperor and the Dutch States, and compel 
the withdrawal of the Duke of Anjou. The 
True-Born Englishman, an answer in verse to 


a pamphlet entitled Foreigners, ridiculing the 
Dutch favorites of King Willani III., became 
the rage of the hour, 80.000 copies of it being 
sold in the ■ streets. In 1702, when the Bill 
against Occasional Conformity was intro- 
duced by the High-church party, Defoe pub- 
lished a pamphlet The Shortest Way icith 
Dissenters, in Avhich he put the sentiments of 
the extreme High-church party into plain 
English. The Dissenters were unapprecia- 
tive, the High-churchmen furious. A com- 
plaint was made against him in the House of 
Commons, and an order was issued for his ar- 
rest. He concealed himself, but when his pub- 
lisher was arrested, he surrendered himself. 
His pamphlet was ordered to be biu-ned by the 
common hangman, and he was sentenced to 
pay a fine of 200 marks, to stand three times 
in the pillory, to be imprisoned during the 
Queen's pleasure, and to find sureties for 
seven years' good behavior. While in New- 
gate awaiting his trial, Defoe had published 
a Collection of the Writings of the Author of 
the True-Born Englishman, and More Refor- 
mation, a satire on himself. When convicted 
of seditious libel he wrote a Hymn to the 
Pillory, which awakened such enthusiasm 
that his appearence in that place of humilia- 
tion became a triumph. 

During bis imprisonment he made good 
use of his pen. He began a semi-weekly pa- 
per. The Review, written entirely by himself. 
Under the heading Mercure Scandale, he 
noticed current scandals and criticised the 
contemporary news-writers. The serious part 
of the paper was devoted to a review of the 
affairs, domestic and foreign, of all the states 
of Europe. Besides the Review, Defoe, while 
in prison, wrote and published A Collection 
of the most Remarkable Casualties and Dis- 
asters ichich happeried in the Late Dreadful 


Tempest, both by Sea and Land. This minute 
and circumstantial account of the great storm 
of November, 1703, accompanied with letters 
purporting to be from eye-witnesses, gives 
the same effect of reality as the Journal of 
the Plague. Defoe was released from im- 
prisomiient in 1704, through the intervention 
of Robert Harle}', afterwards Earl of Oxford, 
Secretary of State. He immediately pub- 
lished an Elegy on the Author of the 
True-Born Englishman, afRrming that the 
condition of his release was that he should 
" not write what some people might not like." 
The Government took him into its service, 
and he received a pension from the Queen. In 
1705 he published The Consolidator, or Me- 
moirs of Sundry Transactions in the Moon, 
and the True Relation of the Apparition of 
one Mrs. Veal, one of the most successful 
impositions on the credulity of mankind ever 

During the contest regarding the Occasion- 
al Conformity Bill, Defoe devoted his paper 
to articles on the subject of the Bill, exhort- 
ing the nation to study peace and union. 
These articles Avere written in such a way as 
to infuriate the High-church party in the 
Commons, who in order to pass the obnoxious 
Bill, previouslj' rejected by the Lords, had 
tacked it to a Bill of Supply. The High- 
church party having been defeated, Defoe 
gave all his energies to promote the Union of 
England and Scotland. To further the cause 
he went to Edinburgh, at the risk of losing his 
life by the fury of the populace. Here he re- 
mained through the year 1707. On the dis- 
missal of Harley from office, Defoe was 
urged by the retiring Secretary not to relin- 
quish his service to the Queen, but to apply 
to Godolphin, his successor, for the continu- 
ance of his appointment. This he did, and in 


1708 he was again dispatched to Edinburgh. 
During the next three years he issued several 
I)amphlets, among them, Reasons against 
the Sicccession of the House of Hanover, 
What if the Pretender should come f and An 
Ansiver to a Question that nobody thinks of 
—viz : But what if the Queen sJioidd Die f 
These pamphlets were misunderstood alike 
by Whig and Tory. Their author again suf- 
fered fine and four months' imprisonment. 
In 1715 he published An Appeal to Hon- 
or and Justice, in defence of his political 
conduct. With this appeal his political life 
was supposed to end; but the discovery of 
several letters in his handwriting proves that 
in 1718, at least, he was employed by the gov- 
ernment as sub- editor of the Jacobite Mist's 
Journal, to tone down objectionable features, 
and render it inoffensive. Other journals 
seem also to have received this not honorable 
service from Defoe. 

In 1719 Robinson Crusoe took the reading 
world by storm. It immediately became 
popular, and its extraordinary success in- 
duced its author to write numerous other nar- 
ratives in a similar vein : Duncan Campbell, 
and The Life and Perils of Captain Singleton, 
(1720) ; The History of Colonel Jack, and The 
Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders 
(1721) ; Religious Courtship, and Tlie Journal 
of the Plague Year, 1665 (1722) ; Meiuoirs of a 
Cavalier, and The Adventures of Roxana 
(1724) ; A Tour through the ivhole Island of 
Great Britain (1724-7) ; A Neiv Voyage around 
the Wo7'ld (1725) ; and the Memoirs of Captain 
Carleton (1728). He also wrote a Political 
History of the DevilX172Q) ; a System of Magic, 
a History of Apparitions, and The Complete 
English Tradesman (1727). 

Defoe was the author of 210 books and 
pamphlets. His Journal of the Plague in 


London and his Memoirs of a Cavalier have 
been accepted as veritable history, so minute 
was the author's knowledge of the times he 
describes, and so vivid was liis conception of 
the effect of events iipon the common mind. 
From contact with the denizens of the prison 
he gained a knowledge of the life and charac- 
ter of criminals, that enabled him to relate, as 
from his own soul, the experience of theirs. 
His style is unrivaled in simplicity and 
naturalness, his English is pure and unpre- 

The Romans first with Julius Caesar came, 
Including all the nations of that name, [tion, 

Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards ; and by computa- 
Auxiliaries or slaves of ev'ry nation. 
With Hengist, Saxons ; Danes with Sueno came, 
In search of plunder, not in search of fame ; 
ScotvS. Picts. and Irish from th' Hibernian shore ; 
And conquering William brought the Normans 

All these their barb'rous offspring left behind, 
The dregs of armies, they of all mankind ; 
Blended with Britons who before were here, 
Of whom the Welsh have blest the character, . . 

The customs, surnames, languages, and manners 
Of all these nations are their own explainers. 
Whose relics are so lasting and so strong, 
They have left a Shiboleth upon our tongue, 
By which with easy search you may distinguish 
Youi- Roman, Saxon, Danish, Norman, English. 

The great invading Norman let us know 
What conquerors in after-times might do. 
To ev'ry musketeer he brought to town 
He gave the lands wliich never were liis own. 
When fii-st the English crown he did obtain, 
He did not send his Dutchrnen home again. 
No re-assumptions in his reign were known : 
Davenant might there have let his book alone. 
No parliament liis army could disband ; 
He raised no money, for he paid in land. 


He gave his legions their eternal station. 

And made them all freeholders of the nation. 

He canton'd out the country to his men, 

And ev'ry -soldier was a denizen. 

The rascals thus enrich"d, he called them lords, 

To please their upstart pride with new-made 

And doomsday-book his tyranny records, [words ; 

And here begins our ancient pedigree 
That so exalts our poor nobility. 
Tis that from some French trooper they derive, 
Who with tlie Norman bastard did arrive. 
The trophies of the families appear : [spear 

Some show the sword, the bow, and some the 
Which their great ancestor, forsooth, did wear. 
These in the Herald's Register remain. 
Their noble mean extraction to explain. 
Yet who the hero was no man can tell, 
Whether a drummer or a colonel : 
The silent record blushes to reveal 
Their undescended dark original. . . . 

These are the heroes who despise the Dutch, 
And rail at new-come foreigners so much ; 
Forgetting that themsel ves are all derived 
From the most scoundrel race that ever lived : 
A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and drones, 
Who ransack'd kingdoms, and dispeopled towns. 
The Pict and painted Briton, treach'rous Scot, 
By hunger, theft, and rapine hither brought ; 
Norwegian pirates, buccaneering Danes, 
Whose red-hair"d offspring ev'ry where remains ; 
Who, join'd with Norman-French, compound the 

From whence your true-born Englishmen proceed. 

And lest by length of time it be pretended 
The climate may this modern breed have mended. 
Wise Providence, to keep us where we are. 
Mixes us daily with exceedmg care. 
We have been Europe's sink, the jakes where she 
Voids all her oflfal outcast progeny, 
From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands 
Of banish'd fugitives from neighb'ring lands 
Have here a certain sanctuary found : 
Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond, 
Where, in but half a common age of time. 


Borrowing new blood and manners from the clime, 
Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn, 
And all their race are true-born Englishmen, . . . 

The wonder which remains is at our pride, 
To value that which all wise men deride. 
For Englishmen to boast of generation, 
Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the 

A true-born Englishman 's contradiction, 
In speecli an irony, in fact a fiction ; 
A banter made to be a test of fools, 
Which those that use it justly ridicules ; 
A metaphor invented to express 
A man akin to all the universe. ' 

— Tlue Tnie-Boni Englishman. 


In this distress, the mate of our vessel laid hold 
of the boat, and with the help of the rest of the 
men, got her slung over the ship's side ; and get- 
ting all into her, let go, and committed om'selves, 
being eleven in number, to God's mercy and the 
wild sea ; for though the storm was abated con- 
siderably, yet the sea ran dreadfully high upon 
the shore, and might be well called den wild Zee, 
as the Dutch call the sea in a storm. And now 
our case was very dismal indeed ; for we all saw 
plainly that the sea went so high that the boat 
could not live, and that we should be inevitably 
drowned. As to making sail, we had none, nor, 
if we had, could we have done anything with it ; 
so we worked at the oar toward the land, though 
with heavy hearts, like men going to execution ; 
for we aU knew that when the boat came nearer 
the shore, she would be dashed in a thousand 
pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we 
committed our souls to God in the most earnest 
manner ; and the wind driving us toward the 
shore, we hastened our destruction with our own 
hands, pulling as well as we could toward land. 

What the shore was, whether rock or sand, 
whether steep or shoal, we knew not; the only 
hope that could rationally give us the least shadow 
of expectation, was, if we might find some bay or 


gulf, or the mouth of some river, where by great 
chance we might have run our boat in, or got 
under the lee of the land, and' perhaps made 
smooth water. But tbere was nothing like this 
appeared ; but as we made nearer and nearer the 
shore, the land looked more frightful :han the 
sea. After we had rowed, or rather driven, about 
a league and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging 
wave mountain-like, came rolling astern oi us, 
and plainly bade us expect the coiq) de grace. In 
a word, it took us with such a fury that it overset 
the boat at once ; and separating us, as well from 
the boat as from one another, gave us not time to 
say, " O God ! " for we were all swallowed up in 
a moment. 

Nothing can describe the confusion of thought 
which I felt when I sunk into the water ; for 
though I swam very well, yet I '^•ould not deliver 
myself from the waves so as to draw breath, till 
that wave having driven me, or rather carried me 
a vast way on toward the shore, and having spent 
itself, went back, and left me upon the land 
almost dry, but half dead with the water I took 
in. I had so much presence of mind as well as 
breath left, that seeing myself nearer the main- 
land than I expected, I got upon my feet, and 
endeavored to make on toward the land as fast as 
I could, before another wave should return and 
take me up again : but I soon found it was im- 
possible to avoid it ; for I saw the sea come after 
me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an 
enemy, which I had no means or strength to con- 
tend with : my business was to hold my breath, 
and raise myself upon the water if I could ; and 
so, by swimming, to preserve my breathing and 
pilot myself toward the shore, if possible ; my 
greatest concern now being that the sea, as it 
would carry me a great way toward the shore 
\vhen it came on, might not carry me back again 
with it, when it gave back toward the sea. 

The wave that came upon me again, buried me 
at once twenty or thu'ty.feet deep in its own body, 
and I could feel myself carried with a mighty 
force and swiftness toward the shore a very great 


way ; but I held my breath, and assisted myself 
to swim still forward with all my might. I was 
ready to burst with holding my breath, when as I 
felt myself rising up, so. to my immediate relief, 
1 found my head and hands shoot out above the 
surface of the water ; and though it was not two 
seconds of time that I could keep myself so, 
yet it relieved me greatly, gave me breath and 
new courage. I was covered again with water a 
good while, but not so long but I held it out ; and 
finding the water had spent itself, and began to re- 
turn, I struck forward against the return of the 
waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I 
stood still a few moments to recover breath, and 
till the waters went from me, and then took to 
my heels and ran, with what strength I had, far- 
ther toward the shore. But neither would this 
deliver me from the fury of the sea, which came 
pouring in after me again ; and twice more I was 
lifted uj) V)y the waves and carried forward as be- 
fore, the shore being very flat. 

The last time of these two had well-nigh been 
fatal to me, for the sea having hurried me along, 
as before, landed me, or rather dashed me. against 
a piece of rock, and that with such force as it left 
me senseless, and indeed helpless as to my own de- 
liverance : for the blow taking my side and 
breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out of 
my body : and had it returned again immediately, 
I must liave been strangled in the water ; but I re- 
covered a little before the return of the waves, 
and seeing I should be covered again with the 
water. I resolved to hold fast by a piece of the 
rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till the 
wave went back. Now, as the waves were not so 
high as at first, being nearer land. I held ru}' hold 
till the wave abated, and then fetched another 
run, which brought me so near the shore, that the 
next wave, though it went over me, yet did not so 
swallow me up as to carry me away ; and the 
next run I took I got to the mainland ; where, to 
my great comfort, I clambered up the cliffs of the 
shore, and sat me down upon the grass, free from 
danirer. and (luite out of reach of the water, — 
Robinson Crusoe. 



It happened one day, about noon, going toward 
my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the 
print of a man's naked foot on the shore, wliicli was 
very plain to be seen on llie sand. I stood like one 
thunderstruck, or as if 1 had seen aia apparition. 
I listened, I looked round me, but I could hear 
nothing nor see anything ; I went up to a rising 
ground, to look farther ; I went up the shore and 
down the shore, but it was all one : I could see 
no other impression but that one. I went to it again 
to see if there were any more, and to observe if it 
might not be my fancy ; but there was no room 
for that, for there was exactly the print of a foot 
— toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it 
came thither I knew not, nor could I in the least 
imagine ; but after innumerable fluttering 
thoughts, like a man perfectly confused and out 
of myself, I came home to my fortification, not 
feeling, as we sny, the ground I went on, but terri- 
fied to the last degree, looking behind me at every 
two or thi-ee steps, mistaking every bush and tree, 
and fancying every stump at a distance to be a 
man. Nor is it possible to describe how many va- 
rious shapes my affrighted imagination represent- 
ed things to me in, how many wild ideas were 
found every moment in my fancy, and what 
strange, unaccountable whimseys came into my 
thoughts by the way. When I came to my castle 
(for so I tliink I called it ever after this), I fled 
into it like one pursued. Whether I went over 
by the ladder, as first contrived, or went in at 
the hole in tfie rock, which I had called a door, I 
cannot remember ; no, nor could I remember the 
next morning, for never frightened hare fled to 
cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind 
than I to this retreat. — Robinson Crusoe. 


The face of London was now indeed strangely 
altered, I mean the whole mass of buildings, city, 
liberties, suburbs, Westminster, Southwark, and 
all together ; for as to the particular part called 
the city, or within the walls, that was not yet 


mucli infected ; but in the whole, the face of 
things, I say, was much altered ; sorrow and sad- 
ness sat upon every face, and though some part 
were not yet overwhelmed, yet all looked deeply 
concerned ; and as we saw it apparentlj' coining 
on, so every one looked on liimself, and his fami- 
ly, as in the utmost danger. Were it possible to 
represent those times exactly, to those that did 
not see them, and give the reader due ideas of 
the horror that everywhere presented itself, it 
must make just impressions upon their minds, and 
fill them with surprise. London might well be said 
to be all in tears ; the mourners did not go about 
the streets indeed, for ncbody put on black, or 
made a formal dress of mourning for tlieir near- 
est friends ; but the voice of mourning was truly 
heard in the streets ; the shrieks of women and 
children at the windows and doors of their houses, 
where their nearest relations were perhaps dying, 
or just dead, were so frequent to be heard, as we 
passed the streets, that it was enough ro pierce 
the stoutest heart in the world to hear them. 
Tears and lamentations were seen almost in every 
house, especially in the first part of the visitation ; 
for towards the latter end, men's hearts were 
hardened, and death was so always before their 
eyes, that they did not much concern themselves 
for the loss of their friends, expecting that them- 
selves should be summoned the next hour. 

Business led me out sometimes to the other end 
of the town, even when the sickness was chiefly 
there ; and as the thing was new, as well as 
to everybody else, it was a most surprising thing 
to see those streets, which were usually so throng- 
ed, now grown desolate, and so few people to be 
seen in them, that if I had been a stranger, and at 
a loss for my way, I might sometimes have gone 
the length of a whole street — I mean of the by- 
streets—and seen nobody to direct me, except 
watchmen set at the doors of such houses as were 
shut up : of which I shall speak presently. One 
day, being at that part of the town on some special 
business, curiosity led me to observe things more 
than usually ; and indeed I. walked a great way 


where I had no business. I went up Holborn ; and 
there the street was full of people ; but they 
walked in the middle of the great street, neither 
on one side or other, because, as I suppose, they 
would not mingle with anybody that came out 
of houses, or meet with smells and scents from 
houses that might be infected. The Inns of Court 
were all shut up, nor were very many of the law- 
yers in the Temple, or Lincoln"s-inn, orGray's-inn, 
to be seen there. Everybody was at peace, there 
was no occasion for lawyers ; besides, it being in 
the time of tlie vacation too, they were generally 
gone into the country. "Whole rows of houses in 
some places were shut close up, the inhabitants all 
fled, and only a watchman or two left. — Journal 
of the Plague in London. 


But to return to my particular observations, 
durmg this dreadful part of the visitation. I am 
now come, as I have said, to the month of Sep- 
tember, which was the most dreadful of its kind, 
I believe, that ever London saw ; for, bj' all the 
accounts which I have seen of the preceding visi- 
tations which have been in London, nothing has 
been like it ; the number in the weekly bill 
amounting to almost 40,000 from the 33d of 
August to the 36th of September, being but five 
weeks. The particulars of the bills were as fol- 
low ; viz. : 

From August the22d to the 29th V,496 

To the 5th of September 8,252 

To the 12th r,690 

To the 19th 8,297 

Tothe26th 6,460 


This was a prodigious number of itself ; but if I 
should add the reasons which I have to believe 
that this account was deficient, and how deficient 
it was, you would with me make no scruple to be- 
lieve, that there died above ten thousand a week 
for aU those weeks, one week with another, and a 
proportion for several weeks, both before and 


after. The confusion among the people, especially 
within the city, at that time, was inexpressible ; 
the terror was so great at last, that the courage of 
the people appointed to carry away the dead be- 
gan to fail them ; nay, several of them died, al- 
though they had the distemper before, and were 
recovered ; and some of them dropped down when 
they have been carrying the bodies even at the 
pitside, and just ready to throw them in ; and this 
confusion was greater in the city, because they 
had flattered themselves with hopes of escaping, 
and thought the bitterness of deatli was past. One 
cart, they told us, going up Shoreditch, was for- 
saken by the drivers, or being left to one man to 
drive, he died in the street, and the horses going 
on, overthrew the cart, and left the bodies, some 
thrown here, some there, in a dismal manner. 
Another cart was, it seems, found in the great pit 
in Finsbury-fields, the driver being dead, or having 
been gone and abandoned it, and the horses run- 
ning too near it, the cart fell in and drew the 
horses in also. It was suggested that the driver 
was thrown in with it, and that the cart fell upon 
him, by reason his whip was seen to be in the pit 
among the bodies, but that, I suppose, could not 
be certain. 

In our parish of Aldgate, the dead carts were 
several times, as I have heard, found standing 
at the churchjard gate, full of dead bodies ; but 
neither bellman or driver, or any one else with it. 
Neither in these, or many other cases, did they 
know what bodies they had in their cart, for some- 
times they were let down with ropes out of bal- 
conies and out of windows ; and sometimes the 
bearers brought them to the cart, sometimes 
other people : nor, as the men themselves said, did 
they trouble themselves to keep any account of 
the numbers, — Journal of the Plague in London. 


It pleased God that I was still spared, and very 
hearty and sound in health, but very impatient of 
being pent up within doors witliout air, as I had 
been for fourteen days or thereabouts ; and I could 


not restrain myself, but I would go and carry a 
letter for my brother to the post-house ; then it 
was, indeed, that I observed a profound silence in 
the streets. When I came to the post-house, as I 
went to put in my letter, T saw a man stand in one 
corner of the yard, and talking to another at a 
window, and a third had opened a door belonging 
to the office. In the middle of the yard lay a 
small leather purse, with two keys hanging at it, 
with money in it, but nobody would meddle with 
it. I asked how long it had lain there ; the man 
at the window said it had lain almost an hour, but 
they had not meddled with it, because they did 
not know but the person who dropped it might 
come back to look for it. I had no such need of 
money, nor was the sum so big that I had any in- 
clination to meddle with it, or to get the money at 
the hazard it might be attended with, so I seemed 
to go away, when the man who had opened the 
door said he would take it up ; but so, that if the 
right owner came for it he should be sure to have 
it. So he went in and fetched a pail of water, and 
set it down hard by the purse, then went again 
and fetched some gunpowder, and cast a good 
deal of powder upon the purse, and then made a 
train from that which he had thrown loose upon 
the purse, the train reached about two yards ; after 
this he goes in a third time, and fetches out a pair 
of tongs red-hot, and which he had prepared, I 
suppose, on purpose ; and first setting fire to the 
ti^ain of powder, that singed the purse, and also 
smoked the air sufficiently. But he was not con- 
tent with that, but he then takes up the purse 
with the tongs, holding it so long till the tongs 
burnt through the purse, and then he shook the 
money out into the pail of water, so he carried it 
in. The money, as I remember, was about thir- 
teen shillings, and some smooth groats and brass 

Much about the same time I walked out into the 
fields towards Bow, for I had a great mind to 
see how things were managed in the river, and 
among the ships ; and as I had some concern in 
shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of 


the best ways of securing one's self from the infec- 
tion to have retired into a ship ; and musing how 
to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned 
away over the fields, from Bow to Bromley and 
down to Black wall, to the stairs that are there for 
landing or taking water. 

Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or 
sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I walked 
awhile also about, seeing the houses all shut up ; 
at last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with 
this i)Oor man. First I asked how people did 
thereabouts? "Alas! sir," says he, "almost des- 
olate, all dead or sick. Here are very few fami- 
lies in this part, or in that village," pointing at 
Poplar, " where half of them are dead already, 
and the rest sick." Then he pointing to one house, 
"They are all dead," said he, "and the house 
stands open, nobody dares go into it. A poor 
thief," says he, "ventui'edin to steal something, 
but he paid dear for his theft, for he was can-ied 
to the churchyard too, last night." Then he point- 
ed to several other houses. " There," says he, 
" they are all dead, the man and his wife and five 
children." There," says he, " they are shut up, 
you see a watchman at the door ; and so of other 
houses." " Why," says I, " what do you here all 
alone?" "Why." says he, '• I am a poor desolate 
man ; it hath pleased God I am not yet visited, 
though my family is, and one of my children 
dead." "How do you mean then," said I, " that 
you are not visited?" " Why," says he, " that is 
my house," pointing to a very little low boarded 
house, ' ' and there my poor wife and two children 
live," said he, "if they may be said to Uve ; for 
my wife and one of the cliildren are visited, but I 
do not come at them." And with that word I saw 
the tears run very plentifully down his face ; and 
so they did down muie too, I assure you. 

" But," said I, " why do you not come at them? 
How can you abandon jour own flesh and blood?" 
" Oh, sir," says he, "the Lord forbid; I do not 
abandon them, I work for them as much as I am 
able ; and, blessed be the Lord, I keep them from 
want." And with that I observed he lifted up his 


eyes to heaven with a countenance that presently 
told me I had happened on a man that was no 
hypocrite, but a serious, religious, good man : and 
his ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness 
that, in such a condition as he was in, he should 
be able to say his family did not want. " Well," 
says I, "honest man, that is a great mercy, as 
things go now with the poor. But how do you 
live then, and how are you kept from the dreadful 
calamity that is now upon us all ? "' •• Why, sir," 
says he, "I am a waterman, and there is my 
boat," says he, " and the boat serves me for a 
house ; I work in it in the day, and I sleep in it in 
the night, and what I get I lay it down upon that 
stone," says he, showing me a broad stone on the 
other side of the street, a good way from his 
house ; "and then," says he, " I halloo and call to 
them till I make them hear, and they come and 
fetch it."' 

"Well, friend," says I, "but how can you get 
money as a waterman? Does anybody go by 
water these times?" " Yes, sir," says he, " in the 
way I am employed there does. Do you see 
there," says be, " five ships lie at anchor," point- 
ing down the river a good way below the town ; 
" and do you see," says he, " eight or ten ships lie 
at the cliain there, and at anchor yonder ?" point- 
ing above the town. "All those ships have fam- 
ilies on board, of their merchants and owners, 
and such like, who have locked themselves up, 
and live on board, close shut in, for fear of the in- 
fection : and I tend on them to fetch things for 
them, carry letters, and do what is absolutely 
necessary, that they may not be obliged to come 
on shore ; and every night I fasten my boat on 
board one of the ships' boats, and there I sleep by 
myself, and, blessed be God, I am preserved 

"Well," said I, " friend, but will they let you 
come on board after you have been on shore here, 
when this has been such a terrible place, and so 
infected as it is ? " 

" Why, as to that," said he, " I very seldom go 
up the ship side, but deliver what I bring to their 


boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist it on board. 
If I did. I tliink they are in no danger from nie, 
for I never go into any house on shore, or touch 
anybody, no, not of my own family ; but I fetch 
provisions for them." 

"Nay," says I, "but that maybe worse, for 
you must have those provisions of somebodj- or 
other ; and since all tliis part of tlie town is so in- 
fected, it is dangerous so much as to speak with 
anybody; for the villa j<e," said I, "is as it were 
the l)egiuning of London, though it be at some 
distance from it.'' 

"That is true," addid he, "but you do not un- 
derstand me right. I do not buy provisions for 
them lure ; I row up to Greenwhich, and buy 
fresh meat there, and sometimes I row down the 
river to Woolwich, and buy there ; then I go to 
single farm-houses on the Kentish side, where I 
am known, and buy fowls, anrl eggs, and butter, 
and bring to the ships as they direct me, some- 
times one, sometimes the other. I seldom come 
on sliore here : and I came only now to call my 
wife and hear how my little family do, and give 
them a little money whicli I received last night." 

" Poor man I " said I, " and how much hast thou 
gotten for them ? " 

" I have gotten four shillings," .said he, " which 
is a great sum as things go now with poor men; 
but they have given me a bag of bread too, and a 
salt fish, and some tlesh ; so all helps out." 

" Well," said I, "and have you given it them 

" No," said he, " but I have called, and my wife 
has answered that she cannot come out yet, but in 
half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting 
for her. Poor woman I " says he, " she is brought 
sadly down ; she has had a swelling, and it is broke, 
and 1 hope she will recover, but I fear the child 
will die ; but it is the Lord I " Here he stopped, 
and wept very much. 

" Well, honest friend," said I, " thou hast a sure 
comforter, if thou hast brought thyself to be re- 
pigned to the will of God ; He is dealing with us 
all in judgment." 


"Oh, sir," says he, " it is infinite mercy if any 
of us are spared ; and who am I to repine ? " 

" Say'st thou so," said I, " and how much less is 
my faith than tliine ? " And here my heart smote 
me, suggestiiig liow mueli better this poor man's 
foimdation was, on which lie stayed in the dan- 
ger, than mine : that lie had nowhere to fly ; that 
he had a family to bind him to attendance, which 
I had not ; and mine was mere presumption, his 
a true dependence, and a courage resting on God, 
and yet that he used all possible caution for his 

I turned a little away from the man while these 
thouglits engaged me ; for, indeed, I could no 
more refrain from tears than he. 

At length, after some further talk, the poor wo- 
man opened the door, and called, " Robert, Rob- 
ert." He answerd,.and bid her stay a few mo- 
ments, and he would come ; so he ran down the 
common stairs to his boat, and fetclied up a sack 
in which was the provisions he had brought from 
the ships ; and when he returned, he liallooed 
again : tlien he went to tlie great stone wliich he 
showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all 
out, everything by themselves, and then retired ; 
and his wife came with a little boy to fetch them 
away : and he called and said, such a captain had 
sent such a thing, and such a captain such a 
tiling, and at the end adds, " God has sent it all, 
give thanks to Him." Wlien the poor woman had 
taken up aU, she was so weak she could not carry 
it at once in, though the weight was not much 
neither ; so she left the biscuit which was in a lit- 
tle bag, and left a little boy to watch it till she 
came again. 

"Well, but," says I to him, " did you leave her 
the four sliillings too, which you said was your 
week's pay V " 

Yes, yes," says he, " you shall hear her own 
it." So he calls again, " Rachel, Rachel " (which, 
it seems, was her name), "did you take up the 
money?" "Yes," said she. "How much was 
it?" said he. " Four shillings and a groat," said 


she. " Well, well," says he, " the Lord kcej) you 
all : " and so he turned to go away. 

As I could not refrain from contributing tears to 
this man's story, so Heithcr could I refrain my 
ciiarity for hisassistance ; so I called him, " Hark 
tliee, friend," said I, '*coine hither, for I believe 
thou art in health, that I may venture thee ; " so 
I pulled out my hand, which was in my pocket 
before, "Here," says 1, "go and call thy Rachel 
once more, and give her a little more comfort from 
Die. God will never forsake a family that trusts 
in Him as thou dost ; " so 1 gave him four other 
shillings, and bid liim go lay them on the stone, 
and call his wife. 

I have not words to express the poor man's 
thankfulness, neither could he express it himself, 
but by tears running down his face. He called his 
wife, and told her (Jod had moved the heart of a 
stranger, upon hearing their condition, to give 
them all that money ; and a great deal more such 
as that he said to her. The woman, too, made 
signs of the like thankfulness, as well to Heaven 
as to me, and joyfully picked it up ; and I parted 
with no money all that year that I thought bet- 
ter bestowed. — Journal of the Plague in London. 


I have often thought since that, and with some 
mirth too, how I had really more wealth than I 
knew what to do with [five pounds, his share of 
the plunder] ; for lodging I had none, nor any box 
or drawer to hide my money in, nor had I any 
jKicket, but such as I say was full of holes ; I knew 
nobody in the world that I could go and desire 
them to lay it up for me : for being a poor, naked, 
ragged boy, they would presently say I had rob- 
bed somebody, and perhaps lay hold of me, and 
n\y money would be my crime, as they say it often 
is in foreign countries ; and now, as I was full of 
wealth, behold I was full of care, for what to do 
to secure my money I could not tell ; and this 
held me so long, and was so vexatious to me the 
next day, that I truly sat down and cried. 

Nothing could be more perplexing than this 


money was to me all that night. I carried it in 
my hand a good while, for it was in gold all but 
lis. ; and that is to say, it was four guineas, and 
that 14s, was more difficult to carry than the four 
guineas. At last I sat down and pulled off one of 
my shoes, and ])ut the four guineas into that ; but 
after I had gone awhile, my shoe hurt me so I 
could not go. so I was fain to sit down again, and 
take it out of my shoe, and carry it in my hand ; 
then I found a dirty linen rag in the street, and I 
took that up and wrapped it all together, and car- 
ried it in that a good way. I have often since heard 
people say when they have been talkingof money 
that they could not get in, " I wish I had it in a 
foul clout : " in truth. I had mine in a foul clout ; 
for it was foul, according to the letter of that say- 
ing, but it served me till I came to a convenient 
place, and then I sat down and washed the cloth 
in the kennel, and so then put my money in 

Well, I carried it home with me to my lodging 
in the glass-house, and when 1 went to go to 
sleep, I knew not what to do with it ; if I had let 
any of the black crew I was with know of it, I 
should have been smothered in the ashes for it ; so 
I knew not what to do, but lay with it in my hand, 
and my hand in my bosom ; but then sleep went 
from my eyes. Oh, the weight of human care ! 
I, a poor beggar-boy, could not sleep, so soon as I 
had but a little money to keep, who, before that, 
could have slept upon a heap of brickbats, stones, 
or cinders, or anywhere, as sound as a rich man 
does on his down bed, and sounder too. 

Every now and then dropping asleep, I should 
dream that my money was lost, and start like one 
frightened ; then, finding it fast in my hand, try 
to go to sleep again, but could not for a long whi le : 
then drop and start again. At last a fancy came 
into my head, that if I fell asleep, I should dream 
of the money, and talk of it in niy sleep, and tell 
that I had money ; which if I slmuld do, and one 
of the rogues should hear me, they would pick it 
out of my bosom, and of my hand too. without 
waking me ; and after that thought I could not 


sleep a wink more ; so I passed that night ov«r in 
care and anxiety enough ; and this. I may safely 
say, was tlie first night's rest that I lost by the 
cares of tliis life and the deceitfulness of riches. 

As soon as it was day, I got out of the hole we 
lay in, and rambled aliroad in the fields towards 
Stepney, and there I must'd and considered what 
I should do with this money, and many a time I 
wished that I had not had it ; for after all my 
ruminating upon it, and what course I should take 
with it, or where I should put it, I could not hit 
ujwn any one thing, or any possible method to se- 
cure it ; and it pt^rplexed me so, that at last, as I 
said jtist now, I sat down and cried heartily. 

When my crying was over, the case was the 
same ; I had the money still, and what to do with 
it I could not tell ; at last it came into my head 
that I should look out for some hole in a tree, and 
seek to hide it there, till 1 should have occasion for 
it. Big with tiiis discovery, as I then thought it, 
I began to look about me for a tree ; but there 
were no trees in the fields about Stepney or Mile- 
end that looked fit for my purpose ; and if there 
were any that I began to look narrowly at, the 
fields were so full of people that they would see if 
I went to hide anything there, and I thought the 
people eyed me, as it were, and that two men 
in particular followed me to see what I intended 
to do. 

This drove me further off. and I crossed the 
road at Mile-end, and in the middle of the town 
went down a lane that goes away to the Blind 
Beggar's at Bethnal Green. When I got a little 
way in the lane. I found a footpath over the 
fields, and in those fields several trees for my turn, 
as I thought ; at last, one tree had a little hole in 
it, pretty high out of my reach, and I climbed up 
the tree to get it, and when I came there I put my 
hand in, and fountl, as I thought, a place very fit ; 
so I placed my treasure there, and was mighty 
well satisfied with it : but, behold, putting my 
hand in again, to lay it more commodiouslj-, as I 
thought, of a sudden it slipped awaj' from me ; 
and I found the tree was hollow, and my little 


parpel was fallen in out of my reach, and how far 
it might go in I knew not ; so that, in a word, my 
money was quite gone, irrecoverably lost : there 
could be ru) i-ooni so much as to hope ever to see 
it again, for it was a vast great tree. 

As young as I was, I was now sensible what a 
fool I was before, that I could not think of ways 
to keep my money, but I must come tlius far to 
throw it into a hole where I could not reach it : 
well, I thrust my hand quite up to my elbow ; but 
no bottom was to be found, nor any end of the 
hole or cavity ; I got a stick of the tree, and thrust 
it in a great way, but all was one ; then I cried, 
nay, roared out, I was in such a passion ; then I 
got down the tree again, then up again, and thrust 
in my hand again till I scratched my arm and 
made it bleed, and cried all the while most 
violently ; then I began to think I had not so 
much as a half-penny of it left for a half-penny 
roll, and I was hungry, and then I cried again : 
then I came away in despair, crying and roaring 
like a little boy that had been whipped ; then I 
went back again to the tree, and up the tree again, 
and thus I did several times. 

The last time I had gotten up the tree I hap- 
pened to come down not on the same side that I 
went up and came down before, but on the other 
side of the tree, and on the other side of the bank 
also ; and, behold, the tree had a great open place 
in the side of it close to the ground, as old hollow 
trees often have ; and looking in the open place, 
to my inexpressible joy there lay my money and 
my linen rag, all A\Tapped up just as I had put it 
into the hole ; for the tree being hollow all the 
wa3' up, there had been some moss or light stviff, 
which I had not judgment enough to know was 
not firm, that had given way when it came to drop 
out of my hajid, and so it had slipped quite down 
at once. 

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for 
I holloaed quite out aloud when I saw it : then I 
ran to it and snatched it up, hugged and kissed 
the dirty rag a hundred times ; then danced and 
jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the 


other, and, in short, I knew not what, much less 
do I know now what I did, though I shall never 
forget the thing ; either what a sinking grief it 
was to my heart when I thought I had lost it, or 
what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had 
got it again. 

While I was in the first transport of my joy, as 
I have said, I ran about and knew not what I did ; 
but when that was over, I sat down, opened the 
foul clout the money was in, looked at it, told it, 
found it was all there, and then I fell a-crying as 
violently as I did before, when I thought I had 
lost it, — Tlie History of Colonel Jack. 

De forest, John William, an American 
author, born in Derby, Conn., in 1826. His 
first volume was a Historij of the Indians in 
Connecticut, published in 1850. He had al- 
ready resided nearly two years in Syria, and 
he now went to Europe, where he remained 
four years. On his return to America, he 
published Oriental Acquaintance (18.57), Eu- 
ropean Acquaintance (1858); and SeacUff, his 
first novel (1859). During the next two years 
he wrote numerous short stories. At the be- 
ginning of the Civil War he joined the Union 
army, and served for nearly four years. For 
three years after the war he was employed in 
various official positions under the Govern- 
ment. He is the author of many short 
stories, essays, and sketches, and has written, 
besides the novel already mentioned, Miss 
RaveneVs Conversion from Secession to Loy- 
alty (1867), Overland (1871), Kate Beaumont 
(1871), The Wether ell Affair (1873), Honest 
John Vane (1874), Playing the Mischief (1875), 
Irene the Missionary, and The Bloody Chasm; 
or The Oddest of Courtships (1881). 


As soon as the caucus had been organized and 
had listened to a pair of brief speeches urging har- 


monious action, it split into two furiously hostile 
factions, each headed by one of the gentlemen 
who talked harmony. Fierce philippics were de- 
livered, some denouncing Bummer for being a 
taker of bribes and a pilferer of the United States 
Treasury, and some denouncing Saltonstall (as 
near as could be made out) for being a gentleman. 
So suspicious of each other's adroitness weie the 
two parties, and so nearly balanced did they seem 
to be in numbers, that neither dared press the con- 
test to a ballot. The war of by no means ambro- 
sial words went on until the air of the hall became 
little less than mephitic, and the leading patriots 
present had got as hoarse and nearlj- as black in 
the face as so many crows. At last, when accom- 
modation was clearly impossible, and the chiefs of 
the contending parties were pretty well fagged 
with their exertions, Darius Dorman sprang to his 
fpet (if, indeed, they were not hoofs), and pro- 
posed the name of his favored candidate. " I beg 
leave to point the way to a compromise which 
will save the party from disunion and from de- 
feat," he screamed at the top of a voice penetrat- 
ing enough to cleave Hell's thickest vapors. "As 
Congressman from this district, I nominate honest 
John Vane." 

Another broker and general contractor, whose 
proTupt inspiration, by the way, had been previ- 
ously cut and dried with great care, instantly, 
and, as he said, spontaneously, seconded the mo- 
tion. Then, in rapid succession, a workingman 
who had learned the joiner's trade with Vane, 
and a Maine liquor-law orator who had more than 
once addressed fellow-citizens in his teetotal com- 
pany, made speeches in support of the nomina- 
tion. The joiner spoke with a stammering tongue 
and a bewildered mind, which indicated that he 
had been put up for the occasion by others, and 
put up to it, too, without regard to any fitness ex- 
cept such as sprang from the fact of his being one 
of the " hard-handed sons of toil " — a class revered 
and loved to distraction by men whose business it 
is to " run the political machine." The practiced 
orator palavered in a fluent, confident sing-song, 


as brassily penetrating as the tinkle of a bell, and 
as copious in repetitions. *' Let the old Republi- 
can,"' he chanted, "'come out for him : let the 
young Republican come out foi* him : let the 
Democrat, yea, the very Democrat, coiue out for 
him ; let the native-born citizen come out for him ; 
let the foreign- bom citizen come out for him ; let 
the Irisliman, and the German, and the colored 
man come out for him ; let the cold-water tem 
perance man come out for him ; let the poor, 
tremulous, whiskey-rotted debauchee come out 
for him ; let the true American of every sort and 
species come out for him ; let all, yea, all men 
come out for awnest Jawn Vane ! "' 

There was no resisting such appeals, coming as 
they did from the " masses.*' The veteran leaders 
in politics saw that the " cattle, "' as they called the 
common herd of voters, were determined for once 
to run the party chariot, and most of them not 
only got out of the way. but jumped up behind. 
They were the first to call on Vane to show him- 
self, and the first to salute his rising with deafen- 
ing applause, and the last to come to order. A vote 
was taken on his nomination, and the ayes had it 
by a clear majority. Then Darius Dor man pro- 
posed, for the sake of pai'ty union, for the sake of 
the good old cause, for the sake of this great Re- 
public, to have the job done over by acclamation. 
There was not an audible dissenting voice : on the 
contrary, there was "wild enthusiasm," The old 
war-horses and wheel-horses and leaders all fell 
into the traces at once, and neighed and snorted 
and hurrahed until their hard foreheads dripped 
with patriotic perspiration, every drop of which 
they meant should be paid for in municipal or 
State or Federal dollars. — Honest John Vane. 


She could not help feeling like one of the spirits 
in prison as she glanced at the awful solitude 
around her. Notwithstanding the river, there still 
was the desert. The little plain was but an oasis. 
Two miles to the east the San Juan burst out of a 
defile of sandstone, and a mile to the west it disap- 


peared in a similar chasm. The walls of these 
gorges rose abruptly two thousand feet above the 
hurrying waters. All around were the monstrous, 
arid, herbless, savage, cruel ramparts of the pla- 
teau. No outlook anywhere ; the longest reach of 
the eye was not five miles ; then came towering 
precipices. The travelers were like ants gathered 
on an inch of earth at the bottom of a fissure in a 
quarry. The horizon was elevated and limited, 
resting everywhere on harsh lines of rock which 
were at once near the spectator and far above him. 
The overhanging plateau strove to shut him out 
from the sight of heaven. What variety there 
was in the grim monotony appeared in shapes that 
were horrible to the weary and sorrowful. On the 
other side of the San Juan towered an assemblage 
of pinnacles which looked like statues ; but these 
statues were a thousand feet above the stream, and 
the smallest of them was at least four hundred 
feet high. To a lost wanderer, and especially to a 
dispirited woman, such magnitude was not sub- 
lime but terrifying. It seemed as if these shapes 
were gods who had no mercy, or demons who 
were full of malevolence. Still higher, on a jut- 
ting crag which overhung the black river, was a 
castle a hundred fold huger than man ever built, 
with ramparts that were dizzy precipices and tow- 
ers such as no daring could scale. It faced the 
horrible group of stony deities as if it were their 

The whole landscape was a hideous Walhalla, a 
fit abode for the savage giant gods of the old Scan- 
dinavians. Thor and Woden would have been 
at home in it. The Cyclops and Titans would have 
been too little for it. The 01ymj)ian deities coidd 
not be conceived of as able or willing to exist in 
such a hideous chaos. No creature of the Greek 
imagination would have been a suitable inhabitant 
for it except Prometheus alone. Here his eternal 
agony and boundless despair might not have been 
out of place. 

There was no comfort in the river. . It came out 
of unknown and inhospitable mystery, and went 
into a mystery equally unknown and inhospitable. 


To what fate it might lead was as uncertain as 
whence it arrived. A sombre flood, reddish 
brown in certain lights, studded with rocks which 
raised ghosts of unmoving foam, flowing with a 
speed which perpetually boiled and eddied, prom- 
ising nothing to the voyager but thousand-fold 
sliipwreck : a breathless messenger from the 
mountains to the ocean, it wlieeled incessantly 
from stony portal to stony portal, a brief gleam 
of power and cruelty. The impression whicli it 
produced was in unison witli the sublime malignity 
and horror of the landscape. — Overland. 


The caiion througli wliich he was flying was a 
groove cut in solid sandstone, less than two hun- 
dred feet wide, with precipitous walls of fifteen 
hundred feet, from the summit of which the rock 
sloped away into buttes and peaks a thousand feet 
higher. On every side tlie horizon was half a 
mile above his liead. He was in a chasm, twenty- 
five hundred feet below the average surface of tlie 
earth, the floor of which was a swift river. He 
seemed to himself to be traversing tlie abodes 
of the Genii. Although he had only heard of 
VatJick, he thought of the Hall of Eblis. It was 
such an abyss as no artist has ever hinted, ex- 
cepting Dore in liis picturings of Dante's In- 
ferno. Could Dante himself have looked into it, 
he would have peopled it with the most hopeless 
of his lost spirits. The shadow, the aridity, the 
barrenness, the solemnity, the pitilessness, the 
horrid cruelty of the scene, were more than might 
be received into the soul. It was something which 
could not be imagined, and which, when seen, 
could not be fully remembered. To gaze on it was 
like beholding the mysterious, wicked countenance 
of the father of all evil. It was a landscape which 
was a fiend. 

The precipices were not bare and plane faces of 
rock, destitute of minor finish and of color. They 
had their horrible decorations ; they showed the 
ingenuity and the artistic force of the Afreets who 
had fashioned them : 'they w^ere wrought and 


tinted with a demoniac splendor suited to their 
magnitude. It seemed as if some goblin Michel 
Angelo had here done his carving and frescoing 
at the coumiand of the lords of hell. Layers of 
brown, gray and orange sanilstone alternated from 
base to summit ; and these tints were laid on with 
a breadth of effect which was prodigious : a hun- 
dred feet in height and miles in length with a 
stroke of the brush. The architectural and sculp- 
tural results were equally monstrous. There were 
lateral shelves twenty feet in width, and thou- 
sands of yards in length. There were towers, 
pilasters, and formless caryatides, a quarter of a 
mile in height. Great bulks projected, capped by 
gigantic mitres or diadems, and flanked by 
cavernous indentations. In consecjuence of the 
varying solidity of the stone, the river had 
wrought the precipices into a series of innumer- 
able monuments, more or less enormous, commem- 
orative of combats. There had been interminable 
strife here between the demons of earth and the 
demons of water, and each side had set up its 
trophies. It was the Vatican and the Catacombs 
of the Genii ; it was the museum and the mauso- 
leum of the forces of nature. At various points 
tributary gorges, the graves of fluvial gods who 
had perished long ago, opened into the main 
caiion. In passing these the voyagers had momenW 
ary glimpses of sublimities and horrors which 
seemed like the handiwork of that "anarch old," 
who wrought before the shaping of the universe. 
One of these sarcophagi was a narrow cleft, not 
more than eighty feet broad, cut from surface to 
base of a bed of sandstone one-third of a mile in 
depth. It was inhabited by an eternal gloom 
which was like the shadow of the blackness of 
darkness. The stillness, the absence of all hie 
whether animal or vegetable, the dungeon-like 
closeness of the monstrous walls, were beyond 
language. Another gorge was a ruin. The rock 
here being of various degrees of density, the 
w^aters had essayed a thousand channels. All the 
softer veins had been scooped out and washed 
away, leaving the harder blocks and masses piled 


in a colossal grotesque confusion. Along the 
sloping sides of the gai> stood bowlders, pillars, 
needles, and strange shapes of stone, peering over 
each other's heads into the gulf below. It was as 
if an army of misshapen monsters and giants had 
been petrified with horror, wliile staring at some 
inconceivable desolation and ruin. There was no 
hope for this concrete despair ; no imaginable 
voice could utter for it a word of consolation ; the 
gazer, like Dante amid the tormented, could only 
"look and pass on." . . . The solitude of this 
continuous panorama of precipices was remark- 
able. It was a region without man, or beast, or 
bird, or insect. The endless rocks, not only 
denuded, but eroded and scarped by the action of 
bygone waters, could furnish no support for 
animal life. A beast of prey, or even a mountain 
goat, would have starved here. Could a condor 
of the Andes liave visited it, he would have spread 
his wings at once to leave it. — Overland. 

De KAY, Charles, an American poet, 
born at Washington, D. C, in 1849. He is 
the author of The Bohemian : a Tragedy of 
Modern Life (1878), Hesperus and Other Poems 
(1880), The Vision of Nimrod (1881), The Vis- 
ion of Esther (1882), and The Love Poems of 
Philip Barneval (1883). 

White in coverts of the wood 
Where the even shadows brood. 
On waving carpets young of fern 
See the clusters steadfast bum — 
Eyes of joy amid the dark 
Lighting up the forest stark ! 
While the pine is bending over, 
Tenderly, a rugged lover, 
Thankful faces we must wear 
Since the laurel blooms so fair. 

At what altar shall we pray ? 
For his neighbor who shall say ? 
Each devout may draw his moral 
For the generous blooming laurel. 


Let the priest of gods triune 
List to Nature's triple rune, 
Symbols find in leaf and petal 
Which no councils can unsettle, 
Giving praise as well as prayer 
That the laurel blooms so fair. 

Here the lover of one God 
One law reads in oak and sod ; 
Swedenborg's etherial sons 
May see the wood-sprite for the nonce ; 
And Moslem who towards Mecca yearns 
May spread his carpet 'mid the ferns, 
And watching with adoring eyes 
These petals tint with pink sunrise, 
May lift to Allah thankful prayer 
That the laurel blooms so fair. 

Buddhist here can fix his gaze 

Where encounter beauty's rays. 

In this lovely form discern 

Sign of Nature's yeasty chum ; 

And Chma's wise and formal seer 

Beholds the perfect symbol here 

Of work and work's consummate fruit. 

In flower, in bush and groping root. 

These a moment more may spare 

Since the laurel blooms so fair. 

Laurel once was victor's weed. 
This one 's not of warlike breed ; 
Blooming, lost in forest dense, 
With a shy luxuriance. 
She is glad to be the bush 
Favored by the brown-winged thrush. 
Loving more his melting song 
Than the plaudits of the throng ;— 
O, that I the woods might share 
Which the laurel makes so fair 1 


Whose eye has marked his gendering? On his 

He dwells apart in roofless caves of air. 
Born of the stagnant, blown of the glassy heat 


O'er the still mere Sargasso. When the world 
Has fallen voluptuous, and the isles are grown 
So bold they cry, God sees not ! — as a rare 
Sun-flashing iceberg towers on high, and fleet 
As air-ships rise, by upward currents whirled. 
Even so the bane of lustful islanders 
Wings him aloft. And scarce a pinion stirs. 

There gathering hues, he stoopeth down again, 
Down from the vault. Locks of the gold-tipped 

Fly o'er his head ; his eyes. Saint Elmo flames ; 
His mouth, a surf on a red coral reef. 
Embroidered is his cloak of dark blue stain 
With lightning jags. Upon his pathway crowd 
Dull Shudder, wan-faced Quaking, Ghastly- 
And after these, in order near their chief. 
Start, Tremor, Faint-heart, Panic, and Affray, 
Horror, with blanching eyes, and limp Dismay. 

Unroll a gray -green carpet him before. 
Swathed in thick foam : thereon adventuring, bark 
Need never hope to live ; that yeasty pile 
Bears her no longer : to the mast-head plunged 
She writhes and groans, careens, and is no more. 
Now. pricked by fear, the man-devourer shark. 
Gale-breasting gull and whale that dreams no 

Till the sharp steel quite to the life has lunged, 
Before his pitiless, onward-hurling form 
HuiTy toward land for shelter from the storm. 

In vain. Tornado and his pursuivants. 
Whirlwind of giant bulk, and Water-spout — 
The gruesome, tortuous devil-fish of rain — 
O'ertake them on the shoals and leave them dead. 
Doomsday has come. Now men in speechless 

Glower unmoved upon the hideous rout, 
Or. shrieking, fly to holes, or yet complain 
One moment to that lordly face of dread, 
Before he quits the mountain of his wave, 
And strews for all impartially their grave. 


And as in court-yard corners on the wind 
Sweep the loose straws, liouses and stately trees 
Whirl in a vortex. His answering tread 
Winnows the isle bare as a thresher's floor. 
His eyes are fixed ; he looks not once behind, 
But at his back fall silence and the breeze. 
Scarce is he come, the lovely wraith is sped. 
Ashamed the lightning shuts its purple door. 
And heaven still knows the robes of gold and dun. 
While placid Ruin gently greets the sun. 


Though it lacks two months of May- 
Frosts have nipped a genial thaw. 

And the melted snow is thin. 
Crisp and harsh to Reynard's claw. 

White are curves where paths have been 
W^inding through the ruddy swamp, 

Pensive-gray the circling trees 
Etch the sky in gentle pomp. 

Yet is Spring within the breeze, 
Gay in heart of yonder fowl, 
Screaming near a brooding owl 
His jay— jay— jay ! 

Wicked dandy, have you come, 
Dressed in suit of brighest blue, 

Long among our hills to roam 
Till the woods your presence rue? 

Malice sure your notes betray 

While you flirt about each gray 
Brushy top and chestnut crest, 

Jotting down in thievish brain 
Just the lay of every nest ? 

So, when summer 's here again — 
Suck tbe eggs — away you fly 
With tbe parent-frighting cry 
Of jay~jay—jay ! 

Ah the dainty rascal jay ! 

No^^• "s the time abroad to fling 
With the heart and limbs of youth 

Ere the fickle-minded Spring 
All the land with lakes endu'th ! 
Now across the oak-swamp race, 


Following swift his airy trace ; 
Hound him down the icy path 
Till he chatters full of wrath ; 
Chase him past the helpless owl. 
And loudly mock the coward fowl 
With jay— jay— jay ! 

DEKKER, or DECKER, Thomas, an Eng- 
lish dramatist and humorist, born about 1575, 
died about 1640. Of his personal life little is 
known, except that much of it was passed in 
extreme poverty ; that he was for a time con- 
nected with Ben Jonson in writing for the 
stage; that they afterwards quarrelled, and 
lampooned each other. Dekker was also con- 
nected with Ford, Massinger, and Webster in 
the composition of several dramas. He was 
sole author of nearly thirty plays, the best of 
which are Fortunatus, and The Honest 
Whore, the latter of which is highly praised 
by Hazlitt, who says that it " unites the sim- 
plicity of prose with the graces of poetry." 


Nothing did make me, when I loved them best, 
To loathe them more than this : when in the street 
A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ; 
She seemed to all a dove when I passed by, 
And I to all a raven : e%-ery eye 
That followed her, went with a bashful glance : 
At me each bold and jeering countenance 
Darted forth scorn : to her, as if she had been 
Some tower unvanquished, would they all vail ; 
"Gainst me swoln Rumor hoisted every sail : 
She, crowned with reverend praises, passed by 
them ; [hem : 

I. though with face masked, could not 'scape the 
For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such. 
Because they should be pointing-stocks to man, 
Drest up in civilest shape, a courtesan, 
Let her walk saint-like, noteless, and unknown, 
Yet she "s betrayed by some trick of her own. 
— Tlie Modest Whore. 



Fort. — For still in all the regions I have seen, 
I scorned to crowd among the muddy throng 
Of tlie rank moltitude, whose thickened breath — 
Like to condensed fogs — do choke that beauty, 
Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek. 
No ; I still boldly stept into their courts : 
For there to live 'tis rare, O 'tis divine ! 
There sliall you see faces angelical : 
There shall you see troops of chaste goddesses, 
Whose starlike eyes have power — might they still 

shine — 
To make night day, and day more crystalline. 
Near these j'ou sliall behold great lieroes, 
White-headed councillors, and jovial spirits, 
Standing like fiery cherubim to guard 
The monarch, who in godlike glory sits 
In midst.of these, as if this deity 
Had with a look created a new world. 
The standers-by being the fair workmanship. 

And. — Oh, how my soul is rapt to a third 
heaven ! 
I'll travel sure, and live with none but kings. 

Amp. — But tell me, father, have you in all courts 
Beheld such glory, so majestical, 
In all perfection, no waj^ blemished ? 

Fort. — In some courts shall you see Ambition 
Sit, piecing Da^dalus's old waxen wings ; 
But being clapt on, and they about to fly, 
Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds, 
They melt against the sun of Majesty, 
And down they tumble to destruction. 
By travel, boys. I have seen all these things. 
Fantastic Compliment stalks up and down, 
Trickt in outlandisli feathers ; all his words, 
His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous, 
All apish, childish, and Italianate. 

— Fortunatus. 

Dekker was also an industrious prose 
writer. About twenty -five of his prose pieces, 
most, of them mere pamphlets, are extant. 
The best of these is TJie GidVs Hornbook, 
which, says Drake, "exhibits a very curious, 

310 LOUISA De la RAMEE. 

minute, and interesting picture of the man- 
ners and habits of the middle class of society 
in his time. " 


For do but consider what an excellent thing 
sleep is ! it is so inestimable a jewel, that, if a 
tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slum- 
ber, it cannot be bought : of so beautiful a shape 
is it, that, though a man live with an empress, 
his heart cannot be at quiet till he leaves her em- 
bracements to be at rest with the other : yea, so 
greatly are we indebted to this kinsman of death, 
that we owe the better tributary half of our life to 
him ; and there is good cause why we should do 
so ; for sleep is that golden chain that ties health 
and our bodies together. Who complains of want, 
of wounds, of cares, of great men's oppressions, 
of captivity, whilst he sleepeth ? Beggars in their 
beds take as much pleasure as kings. Can w' 
therefore surfeit on this delicate ambrosia? Cat 
we drink too much of that, whereof to taste toe 
little, tumbles us into a churchyard ; and to use i^ 
but indifferently throws us into Bedlam ? No, no. 
Look upon Endymion, the moon's minion, who 
slept three.score and fifteen j-ears : and was not » 
hair the worse for it \—The Gull's Hcmibook. 

De la RAMEE, Louisa, an English novel- 
ist, known under the pseudouym of "Ouida," 
was born at Bury St. Edmunds, in 1840. At 
an early age she began to write for periodi- 
cals; her first novel Granville de Vigne, a 
Tale of the Day. being published in Colburn's 
Neiv Monthly Magazine. This novel was sub- 
sequently republished in 1863 under the title 
of Held in Bondage. Since that time she 
has written Strathmore, a Romance (1865) ; 
Chandos (1866); Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, 
and other Novelettes, and Idalia (1867) ; Tri- 
cotrin, a Story of a Waif and Stray, and 
Under Two Flags (1868) ; Puck (1869) ; Folle 
Farine (1871) ; A Dog of Flanders, and A 

LOUISA De la RAMEE. 211 

Leaf in the Storm (1872); Pascarel (1873); 
Ttvo Little Wooden Shoes (1874) ; Signa (1875) ; 
Li a Winter City (1876) ; Ariadne : the Story 
of a Dream (1877) ; Friendship ( 1878) ; Pipis- 
trello, and Moths (1880) ; The Village Com- 
mune (1881); In Maremma (1882); Wanda 
(1883) ; Othmar, and A House Party (1886). 


The son of an athlete can never rest quiet at 
home and at school like the children of cobblers, 
and coppersmiths, and vinedressers. All my life 
was beating in me, tumbling, palpitating, bub- 
l)ling, panting in nie, moving incessantly, like the 
wings of a swallow when the hour draws near for 
its flight, and the thirst for the South rises in it. 
With all my force I adored my pale, lovely, Ma- 
donna-like mother, but all the same as I trotted 
towards the priest with a satchel on my back, I 
used to think, would it be very wicked to throw 
the books into the river, and run away to the 
fields? And, in truth, I used to run away very 
often, scampering over the country around Orte 
like a mountain hare, climbing the belfries of the 
churches, pulling off their weathercocks or set- 
ting their bells a-ringing, doing a thousand and 
one mischievous antics ; but I always returned at 
nightfall to my mother's side. It seemed to me it 
would be cruel and cowardly to leave her. For 
she had but me in the world. 

" You pi'omise to be sensible and quiet, Pippo?" 
the poor soul always mux-mured. And I used to 
say "Yes," and mean it. But can a bird promise 
not to fly when it feels in its instincts the coming 
of Spring ? Can a colt promise not to fling out 
his limbs when he feels the yielding turf beneath 
his hoofs ? I never wished to be disobedient, but 
somehow, ten minutes after I was out of her 
sight, I was high above on some tower or belfry 
with the martens and the pigeons circling about 
my curly head. I was so happy on high there ! — 
And they spoke of making me into a monk, or, if 
I would not hear of that, of turning me into a 
clerk in the notarv's office. 

213 LOUISA De la RAMEE. 

A Monk ? a Clerk? when all the trees cried out 
to me to climb, and all the birds called to me to 
fly ! I used to cry about it with hot and stinging 
tears, that stung my face like lashes, lying with 
my head hidden on my arms in the grass by the 
old Tiber water. For 1 was not twelve years old, 
and to be shut up in Orte always, gi'owing grey 
and wrinkled, as the notary liad done over the 
wicked, crabbed, evil-looking skins that set the 
neighbors at war : — the thought broke my heart. 
Nevertheless I loved my mother, and I mended my 
quills, and tried to write my best, and said to the 
boys of the town, " I cannot bend iron, or leap, or 
race any more. I am going to write for my bread 
in the notary's office a year lience ; and my mother 
wishes it, and so it must be." And I did my best 
not to look up to the jackdaws circling round the 
towers, or the old river running away to Rome. 
For all the waters cried to me to leap, and all the 
birds to fly. 

And you cannot tell unless you had been bom 
to do it, as I was, how good it is to climb, and 
climb, and climb, and see the green earth grow 
pale beneath you, and the people dwindle till they 
are small as dust, and the houses fade till they 
seem like heaps of sand, and the air gets so clear 
around you, and the great black wings flap close 
against your face, and you sit astride where the 
bells are, with some quaint stone face beside you 
that was carved on the pinnacle here a thousand 
years and more ago, and has hardly been seen of 
man ever since ; and the white clouds are so close 
to you that you seem to bathe in them, and the 
winds toss the mists and part them, and go by 
you, down to the world below to torment the 
trees, and the sea, the men that work, and the 
roofs that cover them, and the sails of their ships 
in the ocean ; men are so far from you, and heaven 
seems so near ; the fields and the plains are lost in 
the vapors that divide you from them, and all the 
noise of living multitudes comes only very faintly 
to your ear, and sweetly, like the low murmuring 
of bees in the white blossoms of an acacia in the 
month of May. But you do not understand this, 

LOUISA De la RAMEE. 313 

you poor toilers in cities, who pace the streets and 
watcli the faces of the rich. 

And I, to whom this life of the upper air was 
joy, was ecstasy, I was doomed to be a notary's 
clerk ; I — called Pipistrello (the bat) — because I 
was always whirling and wheeling in the air, was 
to be a clerk, so my mother and grandmother de- 
cided for me, with the old notary himself who 
lived at the corner, and made his daily bread by 
carrying fire and sword, where he could, through 
the affairs of Ids neighbors. He was an old ras- 
cal, but my mother did not know tliat ; he prom- 
ised to be a safe and trustworthy guardian of my 
youth, and she believed he had power to keep me 
safe from all dangers of destiny. She wanted to 
be sure that I should never run the risks of my 
f atlier's career ; she wanted to see me always before 
the plate of herb-soup on her table. Poor mother ! 

One day in Orte chance gave me another fate 
than this of her desires. One fine sunrise on the 
morning of Palm Sunday I heard the sharp sound 
of a screeching fife, the metallic clash of cymbals, 
the shouts of boys, the rattle of a little drum. It 
was the rataplan beating before a troop of wrest- 
lers and jugglers who were traversing the Marche 
and Reggio-Emilia. The troop stationed them- 
'selves in a little square, burnt by the sun and sur- 
rounded by old crumbling houses : I ran with the 
rest of the lads of Orte to see them. Orte was in 
holiday guise ; aged, wrinkled, deserted, forgot- 
ten by the world as she is, she made herself gay 
that day with palms and lihes and lilac, and the 
branches of willow ; and her people, honest, joy- 
ous, clad in their best, who filled the streets and 
the chm'ches, and wine-houses, after mass flocked 
with one accord and pressure around the play- 
place of the strollers. It was in the month of 
April ; outside the walls and on the banks of 
Tiber, still swoUen by the floods of winter, one 
could see the gold of a million daffodils and the 
bright crimson and yellow of tulips in the green 
corn. The scent of flowers and herbs came into 
the town and filled its dusky and narrow ways ; 
the boatmen had green branches fastened to their 

214 LOUISA De la RAMEE. 

masts; in the stillness of evening one heard tlie 
song of criokets, and even a mosquito would come 
and blow his shrill little trumpet, and one was 
willing to say to him " welcome," because on his 
little horn he blew the good news, "Summer is 
here ! " Ah those bright summers of my youth ! 
I am old now ; aye, old ; though I have lived 
through only twenty-five years. 

This afternoon on Palm Sunday I ran to see the 
athletes, as a moth flies to the candle ; in Italy all 
the world loves the Saltimbank, be he dumb or 
speaking, in wood or in flesh, and all Orte 
hastened, as I hastened, under the sunny skies of 
Easter. I saw, I trembled, I laughed, I sobbed 
with ecstasy. It was so many years that I had 
not seen my brothers ! Were they not my brothers 
all? This day of Palm, when our Orte. so brown 
and so gray, was all full of foliage and blossom, 
like an old pitcher full of orange-flowers for a 
bridal, it was a somewhat brilliant troop of gym- 
nasts who came to amuse the town ; the troop 
was composed of an old man and his five sons, 
handsome youths and very strong, of course. 
They climbed on each other's shoulders, building 
up a living pyramid ; they bent and broke bars of 
iron, they severed a sheep with one blow of a 
sword ; in a word, they did what my father had 
done before the^|^. As for me, I watched them 
stupefied, fascinated, dazzled, blind, drunk with 
delight, and almost crazy with a toiTent of mem- 
ories that seemed to rain on me like lava as I 
watched each exploit, as I heard each shout of the 
applauding multitudes. 

It is a terrible thing, a horrible thing,lthose in- 
herited memories that are born in you with the 
blood of others, I looked at them, I say, intoxicat- 
ed with joy, and with recollection and with long- 
ing : — and my mother destined me to a notary's 
desk and wished me to be shut there all my life, 
pen in hand, sowing the seeds of all the hatreds, 
of all the crimes, of all the sorrows of mankind, 
lighting up the flames of rage and of greed in hu- 
man souls for an acre of ground, for a roll of 
gold! She wished me to be a notary 's clerk \ I 

LOUISA De la RAMEE. 215 

gazed at these men who seemed to me so happy ; 
these slender, agile, vigorous creatures in their 
skins tliat shone like the skin of green snakes, in 
their broiderej.1, glittering, spangled vests, in their 
little velvet caps with the white plume in each — 
" Take me ! take me ! " I shrieked to them ; and 
the old king of the troop looked hard at me, and 
wlien their games were finished, crossed the cord 
that marked their arena, and threw his strong 
arms about me and cried, "You are the little 
Pippo ! " For he had been my father's mate. To 
be brief, when the little band left Orte I went with 
them . — Pipistrello . 


A Faun lives in this Ponte Listo water. Often in 
these days I heard him laugliing, and under the 
splashing of the spouts caught the tinkle of his 
pipe. In every one of the fountains of my Rome 
a naiad, or a satyr, a god, or a genius, has taken 
refuge, and in its depths dreams of the ruined 
temples and the leveled woods, and hides in its 
cool, green, moss-growing nest all day long, and, 
when the night falls, wakes and calls aloud. 

Water is the living joy of Rome. When the 
sky is yellow as brass, and the air sickly with the 
fever-mists, and the faces of men are all livid and 
seared, and all the beasts lie faint with the 
drought, it is the song of the water that keeps our 
life in us, sounding all through the daylight and 
the darkness across the desert of brick and stone. 
Men here in Rome have " written their names in 
water," and it has kept them longer than bronze 
or marble. When one is far away across the 
mountains, and can no more see the golden wings 
of the archangel against tiie setting sun, it is not 
of statues and palaces, not of Ctesars or senators, 
not even of the statues, that you think witli wist- 
ful longing remembrance and desire : it is of the 
water that is everywhere in Rome, floating, fall- 
ing, shining, splashing, with the clouds mirrored 
on its surface, and the swallows skimming its 

216 LOUISA De la RAMEE. 

I wonder to hear them say that Rome is sad, 
with all that mirth and music of its water laugh- 
ing through all its streets, till the steepest and 
stoniest wajs are murmurous with it as any brook- 
fed forest-depths. Here water is Protean ; sove- 
reign and slave, sorcerer and servant ; slaking 
the mule's thirst, and shining in porphyry on the 
prince's terrace ; filling the well in the cabbage- 
garden, and leaping aloft against the Pope's pal- 
ace ; first called to fill the baths of the Agrippines 
and serve the Naumachia of Augustus, it bubbles 
from a giiffin's jaws or a wolf's teeth, or any 
other of the thousand quaint things set in the ma- 
sonry at the street-corners, and washes the people's 
herbs and carrots, and is lapped by the tongues of 
dogs, and thrashed by the bare brown arms of wash- 
ing-women ; first brought from the hills to flood 
the green Numidian marble of the thermai and lave 
the limbs of the patricians between the cool mo- 
saic walls of the tepidarium. it contentedly be- 
comes a household thing, twinkling like a star at 
the bottom of deep old wells in dusky courts, its 
rest broken a dozen times a day by the clash of 
the chain on the copper pail, above it the carna- 
tions of the kitchen balcony and the caged black- 
bird of the cook. 

One grows to love the Roman fountains as sea- 
born men the sea. Go where you will, there is the 
water : whether it foams by Trevi. where the 
green moss grows in it like ocean-weed about the 
feet of the ocean god, or whether it rushes, redden- 
ed by the evening light, from the mouth of an old 
lion that once saw Cleopatra ; whether it leaps 
high in air trying to reach the gold cross on St. 
Peter's, or pours its triple cascade over the Pauline 
granite, or spouts out of a great barrel in a wall in 
old Ti-astevere, or throws up into the air a gossa- 
mer as fine as Arachne's web in a green garden- 
way where the lizards run. or in a crowded cor- 
ner where the fruit-sellers sit against the Avail ; — 
in all its shapes one grows to love the water that 
fills Rome with an unchanging melody all through 
the year. — AHadne. 


DELAVIGNE, Jean FRANgois Casimir, a 
French lyric and dramatic poet, born in 1793, 
died in 1843. He was the son of a merchant, 
and was educated at the Napoleon Lyceum in 
Paris. He early showed a marked taste for 
poetry. Andrieux, to whom some of his 
pieces were shown, at first endeavored to 
dissuade him from writing ; but on seeing his 
dithyramb On the Birth of the King of Rome, 
written in 1811, encouraged him to continue 
poetical effort. This poem also procured for 
Delavigne the patronage of the Count of 
Nantes. In 1814 the young poet competed 
for a prize offered by the French Academy. 
His poem, Charles XII. a Narva, received 
honorable mention, and a poem presented the 
next 3' ear, Sur la Decouverte de la Vaccine. 
obtained a secondary prize. The humiliation 
of France in 1815 gave Delavigne a stirring 
subject. He Avrote two poems, Waterloo, and 
La Devastation clu Musee. to which he added 
a third poem, Sur le Besoin de s^unir apres le 
Depart des Etrangers, and published the 
three in 1818 under the title of Trots Messen- 
iennes, in allusion to the songs of the Messen- 
ians. In these poems he bewailed the mis- 
fortunes and humiliation of France, and ex- 
horted his countrymen to patriotism and 
union. They had an immense success, and 
their author received an appointment as Li- 
brarian of the Chancery. He next wrote two 
Elegies sur la Vie et la Morte de Jeanne d' 
Arc ; and in 1819 produced his tragedy Les 
Vepres Siciliennes, which was received with 
great favor. This was followed in 1820 by Les 
Coniediens, and in 1821 by La Paria. Several 
new Messeniennes appeared between 1821 and 
1823, and in the latter year, VEcole des Vi- 
eillards. For this drama he was awarded a 
place in the French Academy (1825). He 
produced La Princesse Aurelie (1828) Marino 


Faliero (1829) : during the Revolution of 1830, 
La Parisienne, a lyric, was as enthusiastic 
ally received as the MarseUaise had been. 
Another tragedy, Les Enfants d: Edouavd, 
was produced in 1833; Don Juan d'' Autriche, 
in 1835; Unc Famille au Temps de Luther, in 
1836; La Popularite, a comedy, in 1838; La 
Fille dii Cid, a tragedy, in 1839 ; and Le Con- 
seiller rapporteur, a comedy in prose, in 1841. 
Delavigne was engaged upon a tragedy, Melus- 
ine, when failing health obliged him to leave 
Paris. He reached Lyons, where he died 
after a few days' illness. 


They breathe no longer : let their ashes rest ! 

Clamoi- unjust and calumny 
They stooped not to confute ; but flung their 

Against the legions of your enemy, 

And thus avenged themselves : for you they die; 

Woe to you, woe I if those inhuman eyes 
Can spare no drops to mourn your country's 
weal ; 

Shrinking before your selfish miseries ; 
Against tlie common sorrow liard as steel ; 

Tremble ! the hand of death upon you lies ; 
You may be forced yourselves to feel. 

But no, — what son of France has spared his tears 

For her defenders, dying in tlieir fame ? 
Thougli kings return, desired through lengthening 
What old man's cheek is tinged not with her 
shame ? 
What veteran, who tlieir fortune's treason hears. 
Feels not the quickening spark of his old youth- 
ful flame ? 

Great Heaven ? what lessons mark that one day's 

What ghastly figures that might crowd an age ! 
How shall the historic Muse record the day. 
Nor, starting, cast the trembling pen away ? 


Hide from me, hide those soldiers overborne, 
Broken with toil, with death-bolts crushed and 
torn — 

Those quivering limbs with dust defiled. 
And bloody corses upon corses piled ; 

Veil from mine eyes that monument 

Of nation against nation spent 

In struggling rage that pants for breath ; 

Spare us the bands thou sparedst, Death ! 
O Varus ! where the warriors thou has led ? 
Restore our Legions !— give us back the dead I 

I see the broken S(]uadrons reel ; 
The steeds plunge wild with spuming heel ; 
Our eagles trod in miry gore ; 
The leopard standards swooping o'er ; 
The wounded on their slow cars dying, 
The rout disordered, wavering, flying ; 
Tortured with struggles vain, the throng 
Sway, shock, and drag their shattered mass along, 
And leave behind their long array 
Wrecks, corses, blood— the foot-marks of their 

Through whirlwind smoke and flashing flame — 
O grief !— what sight appalls mine eye ? 

S'he sacred band, with generous shame. 
Sole 'gainst an army pause — to die ! 

Struck with the rare devotion, 't is in vain, 
The foes at gaze their blades restrain, 
And, proud to conquer, hem them round : the cry 
Returns, "The guard surrender not !— they die ! " 

'Tis said. that, when in dust they saw them lie, 
A reverend sorrow for their brave career 

Smote on the foe : they fixed the pensive eye. 
And first beheld them undisturbed with fear. 

See, then, these heroes, long invincible, 
Whose threatening features still their con- 
querors brave ; 
Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible ; 
Feats of the past their deep-scarred brows 
engrave : 


For these are they who bore Italians sun, 

Who o'er Castilia's mountain-barrier passed ; 
The North beheld them o'er tlie rampart run, 

Which frosts of ages round her Russia cast : 
All sank subdued before them, and the date 

Of combats owed this guerdon to their glory, 
Seldom to Franks denied— to fall elate 

On some proud day that should survive in story. 

Let us no longer mourn them : for the palm 
Unwithering shades their features stern and calm : 
Franks ! mourn we for ourselves— our land's 

disgrace — 
The proud, mean passions that divide her race. 
What age so rank in treasons ? to our blood 
The love is alien of the common good ; 
Friendship, no more unbosomed, hides her tears. 
And man shuns man, and eacli liis fellow fears ; 
Scared from her sanctuary. Faith shuddering flies 
The din of oaths, the vaunt of perjuries. 

O cursed delirium ! jars deplored 

That yield our home-hearths to the stranger's 

sword ! 
Our faithless hands but draw the gleaming blade 
To wound the bosom which its point should aid. 

The strangers raze our fenced walls ; 

The castle stoops, the city falls ; 

Insulting foes their truce forget ; 

The unsparing war-bt>lt thunders yet ; 

Flames glare our ravaged hamlets o'er, 

And funerals darken every door ; 
Drained provinces their greeily prefects rue. 
Beneath the lilied or the triple hue ; 
And Franks, disputing for the choice of power, 
Detlirone a banner, or proscribe a flower. 
France ! to our fierce intolerance we owe 
The ills that from these sad divisions flow ; 
'Tis time the sacrifice were made to thee 
Of our suspicious pride, our civic enmity : 
Haste — quench the torches of intestine war ; 
Heaven points the lily as our army's star ; 
Hoist, then, the banner of the white — some tears 
May bathe the thrice-dyed flag which Austerlitz 


France ! Fi-ance ! awake, with one indignant 

mind ! 
With new-born hosts the throne's dread precinct 

bind ! 
Disarmed, divided, conquerors o'er us stand ; 
Present the oHve, but the sword in hand. 
And thou, O people, flushed with our defeat, 
To wliom the mourning of our land is sweet, 
Thou witness of the death-blow of our brave ! 
Dream not that France is vanquished to a slave ; 
Gall not with pride the avengers yet to come : 
Heaven maj' remit the chastening of our doom ; 
A new Germanicus may yet demand 
Those eagles wrested from our Varus's hand. 
— Trois Messeniennes. 

DELILLE. or De LILLE, Jacques, a 
French didactic poet, born in 1738, died in 1813. 
He was educated in Paris, and became prof ess- 
orof theHunianitiesatthe College of Amiens. 
In 1769 he published a translation of the 
Georgics of Virgil, with which Voltaire was 
so well pleased that he recommended Dehlle 
to the French Academy, to which he was ad- 
mitted in 1774. His next poem, The Gardens 
(1780), was received with great favor, and has 
been translated into several languages. Pre- 
vious to the Revolution Delille was a pro- 
fessor of belles-lettres in the University of 
Paris, and of Latin poetry in the College of 
France. In 1789 he lost his property. His 
name was put up on the list of the pro- 
scribed, but was effaced, it is said, at the 
request of a workman, a mason, who beg- 
ged his blood-thirsty colleagues not to kill 
all the poets; it might be "well to preserve 
some of them, " if only to celebrate our vic- 
tories." In 1793, when it was decided to re- 
instate a belief in the Supreme Being and the 
immortality of the soul, Delille was appointed 
by Robespierre to celebrate those subjects in 
verse. The poet appeared before the Presi- 
dent with the following verses : 


" O yc wlio seize the thunders of Olympus, 
Of law eternal overthrow the altars. 
Ye cowards, of the earth the base oppressors, 

Tremble ! ye are immortal ! 
O ye who suffer, victims of oppression. 
O'er whom God watches with an eye paternal, 
To stranger shores the pilginms of a moment. 

Rejoice ? ye are immortal I " 

"That is well," said Robespierre to the 
poet, who expected punishment. " The time, 
however, has not come for the publication of 
these verses. You will be apprised of a suita- 
ble da3\" No message came ; the silence was 
ominous ; Delille withdrew from Paris to Saint 
Die, and after the lapse of a year to Basel. 
He did not return to France until 1801. He 
had published in 1800 L' Homme des Chumps. 
In 1803 he put forth another poem Malheur 
et Petie, in 1804 a translation of the ^neid 
into Fren(;h verse, and in 180.5 a translation 
of Paradise Lost. His ^Eneid is regarded 
as the best French version of that poem. In 
the Paradise Lost he -^lacrificed many a beauty 
to the thi-aldom of rhyming verse, and gave 
Milton credit for sentiments not to be foinid 
in the English poem. In 1806 he published 
Imagination, a poem containing many beau- 
ties ; in 1808 The Three Kingdoms of Nature, 
and in 1812 La Conversation. 


And thou, dread sea, tempestuous abode, 

Already have I sung thy space sublime. 

But of thy charms, immeasurable flood, 

What son of nian can drain the exhaustless 

source ? 
Thy might and thine immensity I sing : 
Have I thy wealth, thy fruitfnlness. half told ? 
Those countless nations, fluctuating hosts. 
Like thy vast billows ever newly born ? 
Thine opulent bed encloses in its breast 
A thousantl empires, half the universe, 


Their la^^ s, their customs, chiefs, and colonies. 
All hokl. antl move toj^^ether. one vast throng. 
Earth vainly nourislies the countless liost 
Of beasts, of nations scattered o"er her breast. 
The earth is je^alous of thy wide domain ; 
The elephants her lofty forests range. 
And in thy dark abysses glides the whale. 
Above us. from thy waves rise otlier seaa 
God from this ocean makes the sea of air 
And who beside fills up those waterj' clouds 
Outpoured hi fertile vapors by the storm. 
Upon the mountain shed, and o'er the field, 
Ceaseless renewing and restoring all ? 
Girdled by earth, thy waves the earth enrich : 
To heavenly force respond their ebb and flow, 
The sun-god rules thy Hoods : they follow liim, 
And always threatening, thej' obey him ever. 
Thou hollowest out the vales, the mountain's head 
Thou raisest heavenward, and, turn by turn. 
Now dost thou swallow up, now yield the plain : 
And man to whom at times the records old 
Of earth are opened, reads, with awe-struck soul, 
On mountain-tops the writing of the seas. 
— Imagination . 

De MILLE, James, a Canadian novelist, 
,born at St. John's, New Brunswick, in 1833, 
died in 1880. In 1860 he went to Acadia Col- 
lege as Professor of the Classical Languages, 
retained this position until 1865, Avhen he be- 
came Professor of History and Khetoric in 
Dalhousie College, Hahfax, where he remain- 
ed until his death. He published Helena's 
Household, a Tale of Rome in the First Cen- 
tury (ISoS) ; The Dodge Club, a story of a party 
of Americans traveling in Italy (1866) ; Cord 
and Creese, or the Brandon Myth (1869) ; Tlie 
Lady of the Ice (1870) ; The Cryptogram, and 
A Comedy of Terrors (1871); The American 
Baron (1872). An Open Question (1873), Babes 
in the Wood (1874), and The Living Link. 
He also published two series of stories for 
boys, among which are The Boys of Grand 


Pre School, Lost in the Fog, Fire in the 
Woods, Picked up Adrift, Among the Brig- 
ands, The Seven Hills of Pome, and The 
Winged Lion, or Stories of Venice. 


At last their voyage ended, and they entered 
the harbor of Naples. Glorious Naples ! Naples 
the captivating! " Vede Napoli, e poi viori!" 
There was tlie Bay of Naples — the matchless, the 
l)eerless. the indescribable ! There the rock of Is- 
chia, the Isle of Cajiri, there the slopes of Sorren- 
to, where never-emling spring abides ; tliere the 
long sweep of Naples and her sister cities ; there 
Vesuvius, witli its ihin volume of smoke floating 
like a pennon in the air ! 

About forty or fifty lazaroni surrounded the 
Dodge C'lub when they landed, but to their intense 
disgust the latter ignored them altogether, and 
can'ied their own umbrellas and carpet-bags. But 
the lazaroni revengeil themselves. As the Doctor 
stooped to pick up his cane, which had fallen, a 
number (»f articles dropped from his breast-pocket, 
and among them was a revolver, a thing which 
was tabooed in Naples. A ragged rascal eagerly 
snatched it and handed it to a gendarm, and it 
was only after paying a piastre that the Doctor 
was permitted to retain it. Even after the travel- 
ers had started off on foot in search of lodgings 
the lazaroni did not desert them. Ten of them 
followed everywhere. At intervals thej- respect- 
fully offered to carry their baggage, or show them 
to a hotel, whichever was most agreeable to their 
Noble Excellencies. Their Noble Excellencies 
were in despair. At length, stumbling upon the 
Cafe deir Europa. they rushed in and passed three 
hours over their breakfast. This done, they con- 
gratulated themselves on having got rid of their 
followers. In vain ! Scarcely had they emerged 
from the cafe than Dick uttered a cry of horror. 
From behind a corner advanced their ten friends, 
with the same calm demeanor, the same unruffled 
and even cheerful patience, and the same respect- 
ful offer of their humble services. — Tlie DodgeClvb. 



It was in tliis neighborhood that they found the 
Grotto of the Cuiu;ean Sibyl. They followed the 
intelligent cicerone, armed with torches, into a 
gloomy tunnel. The intelligent cicerone walked 
before tliem with the air of one who had some- 
thing to sho\v. Seven stout peasants followed 
after. Tlie cavern was as dark as possible, and 
extended apparently for an endless distance. 
After walking a distance of about two miles, ac- 
cording to the Senator's calculation, they came to 
the centre of interest. It was a liole in the wall 
of the tunnel. The Americans were given to un- 
derstand that they must enter liere, '' Buthow?" 

"How? Why, on the broad backs of the stout 
peasants, who all stood politely offering their 
humble services." The guide went first. Buttons, 
witliout more ado, got on the back of the nearest 
Italian and followed. Dick came next ; then the 
Doctor. Mr. Figgs and tlie Senator followed in 
the same dignified manner. They descended for 
some distance, and finally came to water about 
three feet deep. As the roof was low, and only rose 
three feet above the water, the party had some 
difficulty, not only in keeping their feet out of the 
water, but also in breathing. At length they 
.came to a chamber about twelve feet square. 
From this they passed on to another of the same 
size. Thence to another. And so on. Arriving 
at the last. Bearer No. 1 quietly deposited But- 
tons on a stone platform, which fortunately rose 
about half an inch above the water. Three other 
bearers did the same. Mr. Figgs looked forlornly 
about him, and, being a fat man, seemed to grow 
somewhat apoplectic. Dick beguiled the time by 
lighting his pipe. 

" So this is the Grotto of the Cumapan Sibyl, is 
it ? " said Buttons. •' Then all I can say is that — " 

What he was going to say was lost by a loud 
cry which interrupted him and startled all. It 
came from the other chamber. 

" The Senator ! " said Dick. 

It was indeed his well-known voice. There was 
a plash and a groan. Immediately afterward a 


man staggered into tlie room. He was deathly 
pale, and tottered feebh- under the tremendous 
weiglit of the Senator. Tlie latter looked as anx- 
ious as his trembling bearer. 

"Darn it ! I say,"' he cried. •' Darn it ! Don't ! 
Don't ! " 

" Diavo — lo !" muttered the Italian. 

And in the next instant, plump went the Sena- 
tor into the water. A scene then followed that 
baffles description. The Senator, rising from his 
unexpected bath, foaming and sputtering ; the 
Italian praying for forgiveness ; the loud voices 
of all the others shouting, calling and laughing. 
The end of it was that they all left as soon as possi- 
ble, and the Senator indignantly waded back 
through the water himself. — Tlie Dodge Club. 

DEMOSTHENES, an Athenian statesman 
and orator, born about 384, died in 322 B.C. 
His father, who bore the same name, was a 
thriving citizen, who carried on manufact- 
ories of cutlery and furniture, in which some 
sixty slaves were employed. He also loaned 
money; and as the current rate of interest 
upon good security was from 12 to 20 per 
cent., his income must have been consider- 
able. He died — apparently in middle life, 
when his son was six years old, leaving an 
estate valued at 14 talents: equivalent to 
$90,000 in our time.* Besides Demosthenes 
he left a widow and a young daughter. By 
his will, the widow was to marry one of his 
nephews, and another nephew was to marry 
the daughter when she grew up. These 
nephews, and another person, were made ad- 
ministrators of the estate and guardians of 
the son during his minority. When Demos- 

*The bullion value of the Attic talent was about $1,250 ; 
but the actual purcliasing power of coin was much greater 
than it now is :--from various indicia we estimate itat five or 
six times greater. Moreover, there were in Athens only a 
few citizens of very large fortunes, Callias, the wealthiest 
Athenian, was rated at 200 talents ; and there were perhaps 
half a dozen held to be worth 100 talents. 


thenes, at the age of sixteen, attained his le- 
gal majority, he found that the greater part 
of his fortune had been wasted or stolen by 
his guardians, and there was left only the 
sum of two talents. He brought suit against 
them, and obtained a verdict for ten talents ; 
but it is not known whether the money was 
ever paid to him. He had, however, been 
carefully educated for the profession of a 
"Rhetorician," or, as we should say, an Ad- 
vocate. He labored under some great disad- 
vantages for the exercise of this profession. 
His constitution was delicate ; his chest was 
weak ; and he had a marked impediment in 
his speech. But gradually he overcame this 
disability ; and though his early efforts met 
with slight success, before he had reached 
the age of thirty he had become one of the 
leading members of what we may call the 
Athenian "bar," with a large and lucrative 

Among the most important duties of an 
Athenian Advocate, was that of preparing 
pleas for his clients. If the client had suffi- 
cient confidence in himself — which seems to 
have been usually the case — he would commit 
this speech to memory, and delive r it to the 
" jury." An Athenian jury was composed of 
a large body of citizens. The usual number 
was 500; but there were sometimes two or 
even three times as many. A skilful advo- 
cate would therefore so frame his plea that it 
might be supposed to come directly from the 
client himself. There are extant about thirty 
pleas of this sort written by Demosthenes. 
From them one may learn many of the lights 
and shades of every -day life ia Athens. We 
have the merchant and the manufacturer, 
the ship-owner and the farmer, the rogue and 
swindler, the rough and his victim, each 
speaking of himself or of his opponent as he 


wished his "fellow citizens" to look upon 
them. Among the most characteristic of 
these pleas by Demosthenes, is one in a case 
of ordinary "assault and battery." The 
plaintiff, a respectable young Athenian, had 
been set upon and violently maltreated by a 
disreputable gang, to whom he had somehow 
become obnoxious. He brought suit against 
one Conoi;, a ringleader of the gang, and em- 
ployed Demosthenes, as his counsel. A por- 
tion of the speech delivered by the plaintiff, 
but composed by Demosthenes, runs thus: 


I was taking a walk oue evening in the market- 
place, with a friend of my own age, when Ctesias, 
Conon"sson, passed us, very much under the in- 
fluence of wine. Seeing us, he made an exclama- 
tion like a drunken fellow muttering something 
indistinctly to himself, and went on his way. 
There was a drinking party near by, at the house 
of Pampliilus, the fuller ; Conon and a lot of 
others were there. Ctesias got them to go with 
liim to the market-place. We were near the tem- 
ple Leocorium when we encountered them. As 
we came up, one of them rushed on my friend 
and held him. Conon and another tripped up my 
heels, and threw me into the mud, and jumped 
on to me, and knocked me so violently that my 
lip was cut through, and my eye bunged up. In 
this plight they left me, unable to rise or speak. 
As I lay I heai'd them use shocking language, 
some of which I should be sorry to repeat to you. 
One thing you shall hear. It proves Conon's 
mahce, and that he was the ringleader in the af- 
fair : He crowed, mimicking fighting cocks M'hen 
they have won a battle ; and his companions bade 
him clap his elbows against his sides, like wings. 
I was afterwards found by some persons who 
came tliat way and carried home without my 
cloak, which these fellows had carried off. 

When they got to the door, my mother and the 
maid-servants began crying and bewailing. I was 


carried with some diflSculty to a bath : they wash- 
ed me all over, and then showed me to the doc- 
tor Will YOU laugli and let Conon off be- 
cause he says, " We are a band of merrj- fellows 
who, in our adventures and amours, strike and 
break the neck of any one we please ? " I trust 
not. None of you would have laughed if you had 
been present when I was dragged and stripped and 
kicked, and carried to the home which I had left 
strong and well ; and my mother rushed out, and 
the women cried and wailed as if a man had died 
in the house, so that some of the neighbors sent to 
ask what was the matter. . . . 

Many of you know that gang. There 's the 
grey-headed fellow, who all day long has a 
solemn frown on his brows, and wears a coarse 
mantle and single-soled shoes. But when they 
get together, they stick at no wickedness or dis- 
graceful conduct. These are their nice and spirit- 
ed sayings: "Shan't we bear witness for one 
another? doesen't it become friends and com-, 
rades?" " What will he bring against you that 
you 're afraid of ? " " Some men say they saw him 
beaten. We '11 say, you never touched him." 
"'Stripped off his coat.' We'll say, 'They be- 
gan."" "'His lip was sewed up.' We'll say, 
' Your head was broken.' " — Remember, I produce 
medical evidence ; thy do not : for they can get 
no evidence against me but what is furnished by 

Up to his thirtieth year Demosthenes was 
busied simply as a lawyer. He now began to 
speak in the agora upon public matters, and 
more especially upon the foreign affairs of 
the commonwealth, which had begun to as- 
sume a critical aspect. The most ominous 
feature was the growing power of Philip of 
Macedon,that threatened to acquire a suprem- 
acy over all the States of Greece, which 
were rent and torn by intestine quarrels. 
Demosthenes, who grew more and more into 
political consequence, took every occasion to 


warn his countrymen against the designs of 
Philip, and to urge a stricter union between 
the Grecian States in opposition to Philip. In 
351 B.C., Demosthenes, being then thirty- 
three years of age, delivered the first of the 
great speeches known as the "Philippics," 
from their being specially directed against 
Philip ; the third Philippic was delivered ten 
years later, but between these dates he deliv- 
ered several other speeches, such as the 
"Olynthiacs" — of hardly less importance. 
Matters came to a crisis in 338 B.C., when the 
combined forces of Athens and Thebes were 
routed at Chseroneia by Philip and his young 
son Alexander. Demosthenes was one of the 
Athenian commanders, and fled back to 
Athens with the remnant of the forces. 

He met at home with a reception which 
was hardh' to have been expected. He was 
chosen to deliver the funeral oration over 
those who had fallen at Chaeroneia, and was 
charged with the duty of superintending the 
fortifications of the city, upon Avhich an im- 
mediate attack was apprehended. But there 
was a strong faction by which he was bitterly 
assailed. The leader of this faction was 
^schines, the prof essional rival, and personal 
and political enemy of Demosthenes. To 
bring the question between Demosthenes and 
Ji^schines to an issue, several months after 
the defeat at Chaeroneia, one Ctesiphon intro- 
duced into the Senate a proposition for giving 
to Demosthenes a public testimonial in the 
form of a golden crown, or rather wreath ; 
and that this should take place in the theatre. 
The resolution passed the Senate, but it had 
to be submitted to the popular Assembly, 
^schines denounced this as an illegal propo- 
sition, and brought an indictment to that 
effect against Ctesiphon. Technically, the 
proposition was an illegal one; for it was 


contrary to the laws of Athens to confer such 
an honor upon any pubhc oflBcer while his 
accounts were yet unaudited ; and moreover 
the honor must be proclaimed, not in the 
theatre, but in the Pnyx, or open-air meeting- 
place of the people. 

For some unexplained reason the trial of 
Ctesiphon was delayed for eight years. It at 
length came on in 330 B.C. The defendant 
was nominally Ctesiphon, but was actually 
Demosthenes ; the real question at issue being 
whether the oflBcial conduct of Demosthenes 
had been such as to entitle him to the pro- 
posed public honor. The prosecution was 
conducted by ^schines; Demosthenes, though 
nominally appearing as the counsel for Ctesi- 
phon, conducting his own defense. The 
speeches on both sides have come down to us, 
and are by common consent pronounced to 
be the most notable examples of Grecian 
oratory. The result of the trial was the utter 
discomfiture of ^schines. The jury con- 
sisted of 1,^00 members. Of these less than 
500 voted for ^schines. According to Athen- 
ian law a prosecutor who failed to gain the 
votes of one-fifth of the jury, was himself 
liable to punishment for malicious prosecu- 
tion, ^schines fled from Athens, and took 
refuge in Rhodes, where he taught oratory 
with great success for more than fifteen 

For six years after his triumph over ^schi- 
nes, Demosthenes took no part in public af- 
fairs — indeed, strictly speaking, there were 
no public affairs to be conducted in Athens. 
In 324 B.C., Alexander of Macedon came back 
to Babylonia after his great expedition to 
India. He had left one Harpalus as satrap 
in Babylonia. This man heaped up immense 
riches by every kind of extortion; he had 
also made favor with the Athenians, to whom 


he fled, dreading the vengeance of Alexander. 
It is said that he brought with him treasure 
to the amount of 5,000 talents. He soon found 
it advisable to quit Athens, leaving, it is said, 
720 talents, which was deposited in the public 
treasury. When the money came to be 
counted there were only 350 talents to be 
found. It was believed that much if not all 
of the missing money had found its way as 
bribes into the hands of public men and 
orators, among whom Demosthenes was 
named. The Areopagus instituted an investi- 
gation, one result of which was that 20 tal- 
ents were reported to have been received by 
Demosthenes, who was sentenced to pay a 
fine of 50 talents — equivalent to some $300,000 
in our day. It is impossible at this day to 
decide with any reasonable certainty as to the 
guilt or innocence of Demosthenes in this 
matter. Eminent historians, like Thirlwall 
and Grote, think that the weight of evidence 
is in favor of his innocence. Not paying his 
fine, he was imprisoned, but sooa made his 
escape and took refuge in the territory of 
Argos, whence he was recalled a few months 
after upon the death of Alexander. 

Demosthenes met with an enthusiastic re- 
ception at his return to Athens. An attempt, 
in which he bore a leading part, was made 
to unite the Grecian States into a great con- 
federacy against Antipater, who had suc- 
ceeded to the government of Macedonia. The 
confederates were defeated at the battle of 
Cranon, in 322 B.C. Antipater took posses- 
sion of Athens, and demanded the rendition 
of Demosthenes, who had taken refuge in the 
temple of Poseidon, on the little island of Cal- 
auria. Feeling assured that the inviolability 
of this sanctuary would not be respected, he 
took poison which he carried about on his 
person. He then dragged himself outside the 


sacred inclosiire, so that it might not be pol- 
luted by a death within its walls. He thus died 
at the age of sixty -two. 

There are extant sixty orations attributed 
to Demosthenes ; though the authenticity of 
several of them has been questioned from 
very early times. The greatest of these is 
that " Upon the Crown," delivered in his 
fiftieth year. This oration has been trans- 
lated into English by many persons — among 
whom are Leland, Kennedy, Collier, Brandt, 
and Brougham. Our extracts are taken from 
the translation of Brougham — himself, like 
Demosthenes, famous as a lawyer, a states- 
man, and an orator. 


Let me begin. Men of Athens, by imploring of 
all the Heavenly Powers that the same kindly 
sentiments which I have throughout my public 
life cherished towards this country and each of 
you, may now be shown towards me in the pres- 
ent contest. Next, I beseech them to grant, what 
SQ nearly concerns yourselves, your religion, and 
your reputation, that you may not take counsel of 
my adversary touching the course to be pursued 
in hearing my defence — that would indeed be 
hard ! — but that you may regard the laws and 
your oaths, whicli, among so many other just 
rules, lay down this — that both sides shall be 
equally heard. Nor does this merely import that 
no one shall be prejudiced, or that equal favor 
shall be extended to both parties ; it also implies 
that each antagonist shall have free scope in pur- 
suing whatever method and line of procedure he 
may be pleased to prefer. 

Upon the present occasion, Athenians, as in 
many things, so especially in two of great mo- 
ment, iEschines has the advantage of me. One 
is, that we have not the same interests at stake ; 
it is by no means the same thing for me to forfeit 
your esteem, and for him to fail in his impeach- 
ment. That to me indeed but I would fain 


not take so gloomy a view in the outset — Yet he 
certainly brings his charge, an unprovoked volun- 
teer. My otlier disadvantage is, tliat all men are 
naturally prone to take pleasure in listening to in- 
vective and accusation, and to be disgusted with 
those who praise themselves. To him, therefore, 
falls the part which ministers to your gratifica- 
tion, while to myself is only left that which, I 
may say, is distasteful to all. And yet, if from 
such apprehensions I were to avoid the subject of 
my own conduct, I should appear to l)e without 
defense against his charges, and without proof 
that my honors were well earned ; although I can- 
not go over the ground of my councils and my 
measures without speaking oftentimes of myself. 
This, therefore, I shall endeavor to do with all 
moderation ; while the blame of my dwelling on 
topics indispensable to my defense must justly 
rest upon him who lias instituted an impeachment 
of such a kind. But at least I tliink I may reckon 
upon all of you, my judges, admitting that this 
question concerns me as much as Ctesiphon, and 
justifies on my part an equal anxiety ; for to be 
stripi^ed of any possession, and more especially by 
an enemy, is grievous and hard to bear, but worst 
of all thus to lose your confidence and esteem — of 
aU my possessions the most precious. . . . 


To all the invectives of ^schines, then, and the 
calumnies cast upon my private life, hear my 
honest and plain reply. If you know me to 
be such as he has described — and 1 have never 
lived anywhere but among j'ou — then let 
me not be sufi!ered to utter a word, be the merits 
of my administration ever so perfect, but rise up 
this instant and condemn me. If, on the contrary, 
you know and believe that I am far better than 
him, and sprung from better men ; that I and 
mine are in no way inferior to any others of mod- 
erate pretentions (I would speak without of- 
fense) — then give him no credit for his other state- 
ments, which are all manifestly fictions of the 
same mould, but continue to me henceforth the 


same confidence which you have. — But you, 
^schines, with all your crafty malice, have been 
simple enough to believe, in good sooth, that I 
should turn away from the subject of my conduct 
and policy ih order to deal with your calumnies. 
I shall do no such thing ; I sliall proceed instantly 
to the most sifting discussion of those measures 
which }'OU have been distorting and running 
down : and afterwards I shall advert to the ribald- 
ry you have so shamelessly poured forth, if indeed 
there be any wish to hear that exposed. 


The crimes laid to my charge are many and 
grave ; they are such as the laws visit with heavy, 
nay with the severest punishments. ... If 
^schines saw me acting injuriously towards the 
State, especially if I were doing the things he has 
been declaiming and ranting about, it was his duty 
to enforce the penal laws against me while the 
facts were recent ; if he saw me committing an 
impeachable offense, he ought to have impeached 
me. and thus dragged me before you to justice ; 
if he saw me illegally propounding, he should 
have proceeded against me for Illegal Proposi- 
tion ; for never can he with any justice assail 
Ctesiphon through me ; and yet it is plain that, 
had he any hope of convicting me, he never 
would have accused Ctesiphon. But if he saw me 
doing any of those other things which he is now 
attacking and running down, or saw me in any 
way whatever injuring your interests, there are 
statutes for all such cases, and penalties, and sen- 
tences condemning to heavy and bitter punish- 
ments. All these he might have enforced against 
me ; and had he done so, and pursued this cotirse 
against me, then, indeed, his charges would have 
been consistent with his conduct. But now, de- 
parting from the straightforward and the just 
path, and shunning all accusation at the time, he 
trumps up, after so long an interval, his collected 
complaints, and invectives, and scurrilities. Then 
he accuses me, but he prosecutes him ; he envel- 
ops his whole proceedings with the fiercest hatred 


of me, and, without even meeting me fairly, en- 
deavors to rob another of his good name. ... It 
is eas}-, then, to see that all the charges against 
me are as little founded in justice and in truth as 
those. Nevertheless I am desirous of examining 
them each and all. especially his falsehoods touch- 
ing the Peace and the Embassy, respecting which 
he has transferred to me his own delinquencies 
and those of his associate, Philocrates. . . . 


After the Phocian war broke out, not through 
me, for I had not then entered into public life, 
you were at first inclined to save the Phocians. 
although well aware of their misconduct, and to 
rejoice at the loss of tlie Tliebans, with whom you 
were offended, and not unreasonably^ or unjustly, 
for they had not borne their good fortune at 
Leuctra with moderation. Tlien the whole Pelo- 
ponnesus was rent in divisions, and neither the 
enemies of the Spartans were powerful enough to 
overthrow them, nor were those who. through 
Spartan influence, had been formerly placed at 
the h(?ad of the peninsular cities, any longer in 
possession of them ; but there prevailed, both 
among them and the other Greek States, an un- 
explained strife and perturbation. Philip per- 
ceiving this — for it was not difficult to see — 
lavished his bribes among the traitors everywhere, 
and put all the States in collision and conflict 
with one another : then, as they all fell into a 
mistaken or a profligate policy, he took advantage 
of it, and grew in strength at their expense. But 
when it became evident that the Thebans, worn 
out with the length of the war, after all their in- 
solence, must be under the necessity, in their 
present reverses, of flying to you for refuge, 
Philip, to prevent this, and obstruct the union of 
those States, proffered peace to you, succor to 
them. What, then, enabled him thus to over- 
reach you, who were, I might almost say, wilfully 
deceiving yourselves ? It must be admitted that 
the other Greek States, either from cowardice or 
infatuation, or both, would give no assistance, 


either in money or in men, or in any other way, 
to you, who were carrying on a long and unin- 
terrupted war for the common benefit of all, as 
the facts plainly showed ; and you, not unfairly 
or unnaturally angry at this, lent a willing ear to 
Philip's offers. The peace, then, which you 
granted to him was the consequence of these cir- 
cumstances, and not of my efforts, as -^Eschines 
has falsely alleged. . . . 


Those possessions which Philip seized and kept 
before I entered into public life, before 1 began to 
debate, I say nothing of ; for I do not consider 
them as concerning me at all. But those which 
ever since I came forward he has been prevented 
from seizing upon, of them I shall remind you, 
and shall render my account by a single observa- 
tion. A prospect of great advantage opened to 
Philip. In the Greek States, not one or two, but 
all, there shot up a crop of traitors, mercenary 
and abandoned, men hateful to the gods, such as 
no one's memoi-y served him to recollect at any 
former period of time. Engaging these support- 
ers and fellow-laborers, Philip seduced the Greeks, 
already ill-disposed and seditiously inclined, to a 
worse disposition, deceiving some, bribing others, 
corrupting the rest in everj^ way ; and split into 
many factions those who ought to have had all 
one only common interest — that of preventing his 
aggrandizement. But in this state of things, and 
in the prevailing ignorance of all the Greeks as to 
the mischief which really existed and was grow- 
ing apace, your duty, Athenians, is to examine 
what course it was expedient for the country to 
choose and pursue, while you call me to account 
for what was done. For the man who then as- 
sumed the conduct of affairs — that man am I. . . 

I would now ask whosoever most blames our 
policy, what part he would rather the country 
had taken : that of those who have contributed 
so largely to the disasters and disgraces which 
have befallen Greece — among w hom may be reck- 
oned the Thessalians and their associates ; or the 


part of those who suffered all that happened, in 
the hope of working their own individual aggrand- 
izement — among whom may bt classed the Arca- 
dians. Argives, and Messenians ? But many, or 
nit her all of them have fared worse than our- 
selves : and indeed had Philip, as soon as his ob- 
ject was attained, gone straightway home, and 
remained thenceforward at peace, offering no kind 
of injury either to Ids allies or to the other Greek 
states, still the}' who had done nothing to resist 
his aggressions would have been exposed to com- 
plaint and to blame. But if he stripped all alike of 
their dignity, tlieir sovereignty, their freedom, 
nay, of their form of government, whenever he 
had the power, did you not follow the most glori- 
ous of all counsels when you listened to me ? 

I come back to this point : What ought the 
country to have done, ^schines, when it saw 
Philip preparing to assume the dominion and gov- 
ernment t)f all Greece ? Or what was I to urge or 
to propound in the Councils of Athens? — (for the 
very place is material) — I who knew that from all 
the time up to the verj' day when I first mounted 
the rostrum, my country had ever struggled for 
supremacy, and honor, and glory, and had lavish- 
ed more blood and more treasure for her own re- 
nown and the interests of all Greece, than any 
other state had ever risked for its individual bene- 
fit ; I, who saw that very Philip, with whom our 
conflict for command and sovereignty was main- 
tained, have his eye torn out, his collar-bone frac- 
tured, his hand and his leg mutilated, abandoning 
to Fortune whatever part of his body she chose to 
take, so that the rest might survive to honor and 

Yet even then no one would have dared to say 
that in a man bred at an obscure and paltry town 
like Pella, such magnanimity could be engendered 
as to make him entertain the desire of subjugat- 
ing Greece, or form in his mind such a plan, 
while in you, who are of Athens, and day by day 
contemplate the achievements of your ancestors 
in speeches and spectacles, such poorness of spirit 
could be bred, that willingly and of your own ac- 


cord you should surrender to him the liberties of 
Greece, That is what no one would have dared to 
say. It remains then to confess as a necessary 
consequence, that whatever he attempted of in- 
jury to you, you might justly resist. This, there- 
fore, you did from the first, naturally and proper- 
ly. This 1 advised and propounded all the time I 
was in public life. I admit it. l^ut what ought I 
to have done ? That I earnestly demand of you ? 

Hewhosiezes on Euboea, and rears a fortress 
over against Attica, and lays his hands on Megara, 
and occupies Oreum, and destroys Porthmus, and 
establishes Phdistides as tyrant of Oreum, and 
Clitarchus of Eretria, and takes possession of the 
Hellespont, and besieges Byzantium, and razes to 
the ground some of the Greek cities, while he 
sends back their exiles to others— is he, I demand, 
who does all this a w-rong-doer, a breaker of 
treaties, a disturber of the peace, or is he not ? For 
if not, and if Greece must be what we proverbially 
call a '• Mysian prey," %vhile the Athenians yet had 
life and being, assuredly I was undertaking a 
bootless task in making these statements, and the 
country was doing a bootless thing in listening to 
my counsels— and then let all the faults com- 
mitted, and all the errors be mine ! But if some 
one was required to oppose Philip, who, save the 
people of Athens, could be found fit for the task ? 
Such, then, was my course of policy ; and seeing 
that he threatened the freedom of all mankind, I 
opposed him, and persevered in foretelling and in 
forewarning you against yielding to him. And he 
it was, ^schines, who broke the peace by the cap- 
ture of our ships— not this country. Produce the 
Decrees and his letter, and read the documents in 
their order. For by attending to them, it will ap- 
pear clearly to whom each event must be ascribed. 

Having, then, made it clear to all what is the 
righteous and just vote to give, it seems incumb- 
ent upon me, however little given to InA-ective my 
nature may be, in consequence of the slanders 
which ^schines has vented— not indeed like him 


to bring forward a multitude of falsehoods — but 
to state what is most necessary to be known re- 
specting him. and to show what he is, and from 
what sort of race sprung, who is so prone to evil 
speaking, and who carps at some of my expres- 
sions, after himself saying sucii things as no de- 
cent person woiiJd have dared to utter. For if 
-i^acus. or Rliadanianthus. or Minos, were my 
accuser instead of this word-monger, this hack of 
the courts, this pestilent scribe. I <lon't much think 
they would have spoken, nor should we have 
heard them deUvering themselves like ranting 
stage-players— "O Earth! O Sun ! O Virtue'" 
and so forth ; and then invoking. "Intellect and 
Education, whereby Right and Wrong are distin- 
guished," as we just now heard him declaiming. 
Why, what had ever you or yours — you abomina- 
tion — to do with Virtue, or what discrimination 
of Right and W^rong? Whence did you get it ? or 
how attain to anything so respectable? How 
should you be permitted to name the name of 
Education, which they who are really well-edu- 
cated never allude to— nay, blush if another so 
much as mentions it ? But those who, like you, 
are without it, make pretense to it. from sheer 
want of sense, till they sicken their hearers while 
they speak, without at all making their own edu- 
cation appear. . . . 

The matter stands thus : I am in possession of 
many proofs that he was in those times employed 
in serving the enemy and calumniating me. . . . 
All the other things which he clandestinely did, 
the country might possibly have been able to bear. 
But one thmg, men of Athens, he worked out be- 
sides, which gave the finishing stroke to all the 
rest— one on which he bestowed a great part of 
his speech, dwelling upon the decrees of the Lo- 
crian Amphissians, to pervert the whole truth. 
But it will not do. How should it ? Quite the re- 
verse. Never will you be able to expiate that 
passage of your life, speak you ever so long ! 

But here in your presence, Athenians ! I invoke 
ah the heavenly powers which have the Attic re- 
gions under their protection ; and the Pythian 


Apollo — the hereditary deity of this State, I sup- 
plicate them all, if I now am speaking the truth 
before you — if I constantly spoke out before the 
people when I perceived this infamous man at- 
tempting the 'wicked act (for I was aware of it — I 
was quickly aware of it) then that they would 
vouchsafe me their favor and protection. But if, 
through pei'sonal enmity, or mere contentious- 
ness of spirit, I falsely press this charge, may they 
bereave me of every blessing. . . 

If to you alone of all others, ^schines, the 
future had been revealed at the time of our pub- 
lic deliberations on these matters, you were bound 
to disclose it. If jou did not foresee it, you 
were responsible for being as ignorant as the 
rest of us. How dare you then accuse me on 
this score than I am to accuse you ? So much bet- 
ter a citizen was I then than j'ou, in the circum- 
stances of which I am speaking, that I devoted 
mjself to what all men deemed the best interests 
of tlie State, shrinking from no personal danger — 
nor so much a^' throwing away a thought upon it 
— while you gave no better advice — (if jou had, 
mine would not have been followed) — nor did you 
lend jour aid in executing mine ; but whatever 
the meanest and most disaffected person could do, 
that you are found throughout these transactions 
to have done. . . . You prove this by all the life 
you lead, and all the things you do, and all the 
measures you propound, and all the measures you 
do not propound. Is there anything in agitation 
for the interests of the country ; ^schines is 
mute. Does anything go wrong : forth comes 
i^schines ; as old fractures and sprains annoy us 
afresh, the moment the body is stricken by 


j^schines — impeaching my whole conduct, and 
bidding you hold me cheap, as the cause of the 
country's alarms and perils, would fain strip me 
of the credit at this moment, and thus deprive 
you of the glory ever after. For if you condemn 


Ctesiphon on account of my policy having been 
wrong, you will be proved to have yourselves done 
wrong, instead of merely suffering under the dis- 
pensations of fortune. But it is not true. It is 
not tnie that you have done wrong. Men of 
Athens, in fighting the battle of all Greece for her 
freedom and salvation. No ! Bj' jour forefathers, 
who for that cause rushed upon destruction at 
Maratlion, and by those who stood in battle array 
at Plata?a, and those who fought the sea-fight at 
Salamis, and by the warriors of Artemisium, and 
by all the others who now repose in the sepulchres 
of the nation — gallant men, and to all of whom, 
.(Eschines, the State decreed a public funeral, 
deeming that they too had earned such honors — 
not those only who had combated fortunately, 
and had come off victorious : and with strict 
justice — for the duty of the brave had been done 
by all — but what fortune Providence bestows on 
each, that they had shared. And such — execrable 
pedagogue — such being the case — is it that you 
would fain strip me of the respect and love of 
those very countrymen, and for this purpose dwell 
upon the trophies and battles, and the great deeds 
of old, with what tittle of which has this trial the 
least connection ? And when I came forward — 
thou third-rate actor — to counsel the State touch- 
ing her claim of sovereignty, with what senti- 
ments did it become me to be inspired on mount- 
ing this Bema ? Should I have spoken things un- 
worthy of these proud recollections ? Then would 
I have deserved • to die. For yourselves, Athe- 
nians, ought not to hear private and public causes 
in the same temper of mind : but as the daily 
transactions of life should be judged strictly, and 
according to the rules and practices of society, so 
should measures of State be considered with a view 
to the dignity of our ancestors : and each of you, 
in coming to decide upon State prosecutions, 
should, together with the staff and badge of jus- 
tice, take upon hims'^lf the impression of the 
country's greatness, if you feel that you should 
act up to those worthy recollections. 



Nor yet, will you find that our very defeat befell 
the country in anywise through my policy. Con- 
sider only, Athenians : Never from any embassy 
upon which you sent me did I come off worsted 
by Philips ambassadors : not from Thessaly, not 
from Ambracia. not from Illyria, not from the 
Thracian kings, not from tlu- Byzantines, nor 
from any other quarter whatever ; nor, finally, 
of late, from Thebes. But wheresoever his negoti- 
ators were overcome in debate, thither he 
marched, and carried the day by his arms. Do 
you, ^schines, requiie this of me, and are you 
not ashamed— at the moment you are upbraiding 
me for weakness, to require that 1 should defy 
him single-handed, and by force of words alone 'i 
For what other weapons had I ? Certainly not 
the lives of men, nor the fortune of warriors, nor 
the military operations of which you are so blun- 
dering as to demand an account at my hands. 

But whatever a Minister can be accountable for, 
make of that the strictest scrutiny, and I do not 
object. What, then, falls within this description ? 
To descry events in their first beginnings, to cast 
his look forward, and to warn others of their ap- 
proach : all this I have done. Then to confine 
within the narrowest bounds all delays and back- 
wardness and ignorance and contentiousness — 
faults which are inherent and unavoidable in all 
states ; and, on the other hand, to promote una- 
nimity, and friendly dispositions, and zeal in the 
performance of public duty :— and all these things 
I likewise did ; nor can any man point out any of 
them that, so far as depended on me, was left 

If, then, it should be asked by what means 
Philip for the most part succeeded in his opera- 
tions, every one would answer, ' • By his army, by 
his largesses, by corrupting those at the head of 
affairs. Well, then, I neither had armies, nor did 
1 command them; and therefore the argument 
respecting military operations cannot touch me. 
Nay, in so far as I was inaccessible to his bribes, 
there I conquered Philip ! For, as he who buys 


up anyone overcomes him who has received the 
price and sold himself, so he who will not taketlie 
money, nor consent to be bribed^ has conquered 
the bidder. Thus, as far as I am concerned, this 
country stands unconquered. These, and such as 
these — besides many others — are the grounds 
which I furnished in justification of Ctesiphon's 
Decree in my favor. 


This repair of the walls and the fosses which 
you revile, I deem to merit favor and commenda- 
tion: wherefore should I not? Yet, I certainly 
place this far below my administration of public 
affairs. For I have not fortified Athens with stone 
walls and tiled roofs : no, not I ! Neither is it on 
deeds like these that I plume myself. But would 
you justly estimate my outworks, you will find 
armaments, and cities, and settlements, and har- 
bors, and fleets, and cavalry, and armies to defend 
us. These are the defenses that I drew around 
Attica, as far as human prudence could defend 
her ; and with such outworks as these I fortified 
the country at large — not the mere circuit of the 
arsenal and city. 

Nor was it I that succumbed to Philip's policy 
and his arms : very far otherwise ! but the cap- 
tains and forces of your allies yielded to his for- 
tune. What are the proofs of it? They are 
manifest and plain, and you sliall see them. For 
what was the part of a patriotic citizen ? What 
the part of him who would serve his country with 
all earnestness, and zeal, and lionesty of purpose? 
Was it not to cover Attica — on the seaboard with 
Euboea, inland with Bueotia. on the Peloponnesus 
with the adjoining territories ? Was it not to pro- 
vide for making the corn-trade secure, that every 
coast our ships sailed along, till the}' reached the 
Piraeus, might be friendly to us? Was it not to 
save some points of our dominion— such as 
Preconnesus, the Chersonese, Tei:.edos — by dis- 
patching succors, and making the necessary state- 
ments, and proposing the fit decrees? Was it not 
to secure from the first the co-operation and alii- 


ance of other States ? Was it not to wrest from 
the eneruy his principal forces ? Was it not to 
supply what this country most wanted ? Then all 
these things were effected by my decrees and my 
measures. All these things, Athenians — if anyone 
chooses to examine the matter without prejudice 
— he will find both correctly advised by me, and 
executed with perfect integrit}' ; find that no op- 
portunity was lost by me, through carelessness, or 
through ignorance, or through treachery ; nor 
anything neglected which it could fall within the 
power and the wisdom of one inan to do. 

But if the favor of some Deity, or of Fortune, 
or the remissness of commanders, or the wicked- 
ness of traitors — like you, ^Eschines — in different 
States, or if all these causes together, have embar- 
rassed our whole affairs, and brought thetn to ruin 
— wherein has Demosthenes been to blame. But 
if there had been found in any Greek State one 
man such as I have been in my sphere among you 
— rather, if Thessaly had only possessed a single 
man, and if Arcadia had possessed anj'one of the 
same principles with me — none of all the Greeks, 
whether within Thermopjdae or without, would 
have been suffering their present miseries ; but all 
remaining free and independent, and secure from 
alarm, would in perfect tranquillity and prosperity 
have dwelt in their native land, rendering thanks 
to you and the rest of the Athenian People for so 
many and such signal blessings conferred on them 
tlirough me. 


Two qualities. Men of Athens, every citizen of 
ordinary worth ought to possess : He should both 
maintain in office the purpose of a firm mind and 
the course suited to his country's pre-eminence ; 
and on all occasions, and in all his actions, the 
spirit of patriotism. This belongs to our nature ; 
victory and might are under the dominion of 
another power. 

These dispositions you will find to have been 
absolutely inherent in me. For observe : neither 
when my head was demanded, nor when they 


dragged me before the Amphictyons, nor when 
they threatened, nor when they promised, nor 
when they let loose on me these wretches like 
wild beasts, did I ever abate in any particular my 
affection for you. This straightforward and 
honest path of policy, from the very first, I chose : 
the honor, the power, the glory of my country to 
promote — these to augment — in these to have my 
being. Never was I seen going about the streets 
elated and exulting when the enemy was victori- 
ous ; stretching out my hand, and congratulating 
such as I thought would tell it elsewhere, but 
hearing with alarm any success of our own 
armies, moaning and bent to the earth, like those 
impious men who I'ail at this country, as if they 
could do so without also stigmatizing themselves ; 
and wlio, turning their eyes abroad, and seeing 
the prosperity of the enemy in the calamities of 
Greece, rejoice in them, and maintain that we 
should labor to make them last forever. 

Let not, O gracious God — let not such conduct 
receive any manner of sanction from thee I Rather 
plant even in these men a better si)irit and better 
feelings ! But if they are wholly incurable, then 
pursue them — yea, themselves bj' themselves — to 
utter and untimely perdition by land and by sea ; 
and to us who are spared, vouchsafe to grant the 
speediest rescue from our impending alarms, and 
an unsliaken security. 

DENHAM, Sir John, an English poet, born 
at Dublin in 1615, died at London in 1668. 
His father was Chief-baron of the Exchequer 
in Ireland. Denham was educated at Oxford, 
and during the civil war was actively en- 
gaged on the royahst side. After the triumph 
of the Farliament, his estates were confiscat- 
ed by the victorious party ; but he recovered 
them upon the restoration of Charles II. , by 
whom he was made a Knight of the Bath, and 
surveyor of the royal buildings. Denham's 
place in literature rests mainly upon his de- 
scriptive poem Coojjers Hill, published in 


1642, of which Dryden said, ' ' For majesty of 
the style it is, and will ever be, the exact 
standard of good writing." Denham wrote a 
tragedy entitled Sophy, which had a tempora- 
ry success upon the stage, and An Elegy on 
Mr. Abraham Coivley : 


My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 
Where Tliames among the wanton valleys strays ; 
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons 
By his old sire, to his embraces runs, 
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 
Like mortal life to meet eternity. [hold, 

Though with those streams he no remembrance 
Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold. 
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore. 
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 
And hatches plenty for th" ensuing spring, 
And then destroys it with too fond a stay. 
Like mothers which their infants overlay ; 
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 
No unexpected inundations spoil [toil, 

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's 
But Godlike his unwearied bounty ^ws ; 
First loves to do, then loves tiie good he does. 
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined. 
But free and common, as the sea or wind. 
When he to boast or to disperse his stores. 
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 
Visits the world, and in his flying tours 
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours : 
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it 

Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants : 
So that to us no thing, no place is strange. 
While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 
O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 
My great example, as it is my tlieme ! [dull : 

Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not 
Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing, full. 
— Cooper's Hill. 

248 Sir JOHN DENHA.M. 

Old Chaucer, like the morning star, 
To us discovers day from far. 
His light those mists and clouds disolved 
Which our dark nation long involved ; 
But he, descending to the shades, 
Darkness again the age invades ; 
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose. 
Whose purple hlush the day foreshows ; 
The other three with his own fires 
Phcebus, the poet's god, inspires : 
By Shakespeare's, Jonson's. Fletcher's lines, 
Our stage's lusti'e Rome's outshines. 
These poets near our princes sleep. 
And in one grave their mansion keep. 
They lived to see so many days. 
Till time had blasted all their bays ; 
But cursed be tlie fatal hour 
That plucked the fairest, sweetest flower 
That in the Muses" garden grew, 
And amongst withered laurels threw. 
Time, which made them their fame outlive, 
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. 
Old mother-wit and nature gave 
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have : 
In Spenser and in Jonson, art 
Of slower jjature got the start ; 
But both in him so equal are. 
None knows whicli bears the happiest share. 
To him no author was unknown, 
Yet what he wrote was all his own ; 
He melted not the ancient gold. 
Nor, with Ben Jonson. did make bold 
To plunder all the Roman stores 
Of poets and of orators : 
Horace his wit and Virgil's state 
He did not steal, but emulate ; 
And when lie would like them appear. 
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear : 
He not from Rome alone, but Greece, 
Like .Jason, brought the golden fleece ; 
To him that language — though to none 
Of th' others— as his owni was known. 


On a stiff gale, as Fiaccus sings, 
The Theban swan extends his wings, 
When through th' ethereal clouds he flies 
To the,same pitch our swan doth rise ; 
Old Pindar's heights by him are reached. 
When on that gale his wings are stretched ; 
His fancy and his judgment such. 
Each to t' other seemed too much : 
His severe judgment giving law, 
His modest fancy kept in awe. 

DENNIE, Joseph, an American litterateur, 
born at Boston in 1768, died at Philadelphia 
in 1812. He graduated at Harvard in 1790 ; 
studied law at Charlestown, N. H. , where he 
was admitted to the bar. In 1795 he removed 
to Walpole, N. H. , where he became editor of 
The Farmer's Weekly Magazine, which he 
conducted very ably for three years, when 
the publisher became bankrupt. In 1799 he 
went to Philadelphia, then the national 
capital, as private secretary to Mr. Pickering, 
the Secretary of State. On January 1, 1801, 
he commenced, in conjunction with Asbury 
Dickens, The Portfolio, a weekly Journal, 
which was soon changed to a monthly. He 
Avas connected until his death with The Port- 
folio, which contained contributions from 
John Quincy Adams, Francis Hopkinson, 
Robert Walsh, Horace Binney, Charles 
Brockden Brown, and other prominent men. 
His best writings, published under the title of 
"The Lay Preacher," appeared in The Farm- 
er^s Weekly. 


Whenever I reflect upon my habitual attach- 
ment to books, I feel a new glow of gratitude 
towards that Power who gave me a mind thus 
disposed, and to those liberal friends who have 
allowed the utmost latitude of indulgence to my 
propensity. In sickness, in sorrow, in the most 
doleful days of dejection, or in the most gloomy 


seasons of the calendar, study is the sweetest 
solace and the surest refuge. . . . The utility and 
delight of a taste for books are as demonstrable as 
any axiom of the severest science. The most 
prosperous fortune is often harassed by various 
vexations. The sturdiest son of strength is some- 
times tlie victim of disease. Melancholy will 
sometimes involve the merriest in her shade, and 
the fairest month in the year will have its cloudy 
days. In those dreary seasons from which no 
man may hope to escape, sensual delights will till 
scarcely a nook in the gloomy void of the troubled 
time. Brief as the lightning in the darksome 
night, this pleasure may flash before the giddy 
eyes, but then merely for a moment, and the 
twinkling radiance is still surrounded with the 
merriest glow. Eating, drinking, and sleeping; 
tlie song and the dance, the tabret and viol, the 
hurry of dissipation, the agitation of play — these 
resources, however husbanded, are inadequate to 
the claims of life. 

On the other hand, the studious and contem- 
plative man has always a scheme of wisdom by 
which he can eitliev endure or forget the sorrows 
of the heaviest day. Though he may be cursed 
with care, yet he is surely blessed while he 
readeth. Study is the dulce lenimen labor urn of 
the Sabine bard. It is sorrow's sweet assiiager. By 
the aid of a book he can transport himself to the 
vale of Tempe or the gardens of Armida. He may 
visit Pliny at his villa, or Pope at Twickenham. 
He maj' meet Plato on the banks of Ilissus, or 
Petrarcli among the groves of Avignon. He may 
make philosophical experiments with Bacon, or 
enjoy the eloquence of Bolingbroke. He may 
speculate with Addison, moralize with Johnson, 
read tragedies and comedies with Shakespeare, 
and be raptured by the eloquence of Burke. . . . 
A book produces a delightful abstraction from the 
cares and sorrows of this world. They may press 
upon us, but when we are engrossed by study we 
do not very acutely feel them. Nay, by the magic 
illusion of a fascinating author, we are transport- 
ed from the couch of anguish, or the gripe of in- 


digence, to Milton's Paradise, or the Elysium of 
Virgil. — Tlie Lay Preacher. 

De QUINCEY, Thomas, an English author, 
born at Manchester, in 1785, died at Edin- 
burgh in 1859, at the age of seventy-four 
years and four months. Among the advent- 
urers who came over with William the Con- 
queror, was one who hailed from the village 
of Quince, in Normandy, and was styled 
Richard de Quince. The family flourished in 
England, and in the thirteenth century there 
were several of them who were Earls of Win- 
chester. In the course of time the family de- 
clined from the rank of the nobility, dropped 
the de from their names which they wrote 
indifferently Quincie, Quincy, and Quincey. 
The subject of this sketch appears to have 
been among the first who resumed the de ; he 
however, Avrote his name Thomas de Quincey. 
His father, Thomas Quincey, published in 
1775 a little book, entitled A Short Tour in 
the Middle Counties of England, the sub- 
stance of which had appeared in The Gentle- 
mans Magazine, the year before. He was 
then about twentj' -three years of age. Five 
years later we find him a flourishing mer- 
chant of Manchester, trading with the Levant 
and some of the West India Islands, having 
an establishment at Manchester, and a little 
country house, known as "the Farm," not 
far off. He married a Miss Penson, a lady of 
good family, of noble manners, and of strict 
religious character; a friend of Hannah 
More, and sympathizing with the so-called 
"Clapham Evangelical Sect." The affairs of 
Thomas Quincey prospered so that about 
1791 he purchased a considerable piece of 
land, upon which he put up a villa, called 
Greenhay, at the cost of about £6.000. Our 
Thomas de Quincey was the fifth child, and 
second son, of his father. Thomas Quincy 


died at the age of forty, when his son was 
about seven years old. For several years he 
was afilicted with a pulmonary affection, 
which compelled him to reside at Lisbon or 
in some West India Island, still conducting 
his business, and making only occasional 
visits to England, so that the son saw but 
little of his father, until a few weeks before 
his death, when he came home to die with his 
kinsfolk. He left to his family well-invested 
property, bringing in a clear income of £1,600 
a year — equivalent to some $20,000 in our 
day. Half of this was left absolutely to his 
wife; to each of the four sons was left £150 a 
year, to each of the two surviving daughters 
£100 a year. 

Thomas de Quincey was of slight frame. 
When he had attained his full growth his 
height was barely five feet. He was sent to 
good schools, and at an early age manifested 
unusual talents, and attained high proficiency 
in all studies. Finally, at the age of fifteen, 
he was placed at the Grammar School in his 
native Manchester. Among the inducements 
for this was the fact that this school had sev- 
eral "exhibitions," which entitled the pupils 
who had attended for three years to be sent 
to Brazenose College, Oxford, with £50 a year 
guaranteed to them for seven years. With 
this £50, and his patrimonial inheritance of 
£150 a year, De Quincey could live at Oxford 
in a style befitting a gentleman. He, how- 
ever, took a dislike to the Manchester School, 
and after a year and a half begged his mother 
and his guardians to remove him. To his 
mother he wrote a long letter, setting forth 
his grounds of complaint, and summing them 
all up as follows : "How could a person be 
happy, or even easy, in a situation which de- 
prives him of health, of society, of aniiise- 
ment, of liberty, of congeniality of pursuits, 


and which, to complete the precious picture, 
admits of no variety ? " His petition being 
refused, he resolved to run away from school. 
To get the necessary money, he wrote to 
Lady Carbery, a friend of his mother, and 
with whom he was a special favorite, asking 
for £5 ; the lady, not suspecting his object, 
sent him £10. So one July morning in 1802, 
he slipped away from school, with a volume 
of Euripides in one pocket, and a book of 
English poems in another. 

His intention was to go to the Lake Region 
where Wordsworth had his home, and some 
of whose poems he had read, and greatly ad- 
mired. His mother was then residing near 
Chester, forty miles from Manchester ; thither 
the lad went on foot. The good lady Avas, 
says De Quincey, "startled, much as she 
would have been upon the opening of the 
seventh seal in the Revelation.'' But it hap- 
pened that her brother, who had made a for- 
tune in India, and was now at home upon a 
three years' furlough, viewed the matter in a 
different light ; and at his suggestion it was 
decided that if the boy wanted to ramble 
about for a while, he should have a guinea a 
week, with liberty to go where he chose. 

From July to November he rambled from 
village to village in North Wales, living at 
good inns when he had money, and doing the 
best he could when he had none. Then an 
impulse seized him to go to London, without 
letting his friends know what had become of 
him. This involved the giving up of his 
guinea a week -, but he beheved that in Lon- 
don he could find money-lenders Avho would 
advance him a couple of hundred pounds 
upon his very considerable expectations. In 
his Confessions of an Opium-eater he has told 
some of his experiences in London — perhaps 
somewhat idealized. But it is certain that he 


suffered extreme privations, was often upon 
the verge of actual starvation, and walked 
the streets night after night because he had 
no lodging-place. Some accident made his 
whereabouts known to his family and he was 
brought home. His guardians looked askance 
at his escapade. They would send him to 
Oxford, if he wished ; but he should have an 
allowance of only £100 a year. To Worcester 
College, Oxford, he accordingly went in the 
Autumn of 1803. 

De Quincey's residence at Oxford continued 
nominally for about six years, though much 
of the later period was passed in London. 
He was known as a quiet, studious young 
man. For some reason or other, he did not 
present himself for examination for his de- 
gree of B.A. During the latter part of this 
time, notwithstanding his small allowance, he 
was in possession of a good deal of money. 
Where it came from can only be conjectured ; 
perhaps it may have come, in part at least, 
from his wealthy uncle, who certainly pur- 
chased an estate for De Quincey's mother, at 
a cost of £12,000; and from some circum- 
stances it has been not improbably thought 
that he had transactions with money-lenders, 
converting the whole futurity of his inherit- 
ance into present cash. He had become ac- 
quainted with Coleridge, and learning that he 
was in great pecuniary distress, De Quincey 
went to the good Joseph Cottle of Bristol, 
and asked him to forward £500 to Coleridge, 
as coming from "a young man of fortune 
who admired his talents," and wanted to 
make him a present. Cottle induced him to 
reduce the sum to £300, which was sent to 
Coleridge. This Avas in the Autumn of 1807. 

In the Autunui of 1809, Wordsworth, for 
whom De Quincey's admiration had been 
constantly increasing, removed from the little 


cottage at Grassinere to a larger one a mile 
distant. De Quincey, now in his tAventy- 
fourth year, leased this cottage, which be- 
came his nominal home for the ensuing 
twenty-seven years. He kept np a bachelor's 
establishment for seven years, when he mar- 
ried Mai'garet Simpson, the beautiful and ex- 
cellent daughter of a small farmer living near 
by. In his Autobiographic Sketches, written 
late in life, he gives some pictures of his life 
at Grassmere. One of these sketches relates 
to the year 1812 :— 


And what am I doing among the mountains ? 
Taking opium ? Yes, but what else ? Why, reader, 
in 1812, the year we are now arrived at, as well as 
for some years previous, I have been chiefly 
i^tudying German metaphysicians, or the writ- 
ings of Kant, Fichte, Schelling, etc. And how, 
and in what manner do I live V In short, what 
class or description of men do I belong to? lam 
at this period — viz., in 1812 — living in a cottage ; 
and with a single female servant {honi salt qui 
mal y pense), who amonj^st my neighbors passes 
by the name of my "housekeeper." And, as a 
scholar and a man of learned education, I may 
presume to class myself as an unworthy member of 
that indefinite body called gentlemen. Partly on 
the ground I have assigned — partly because, from 
having no visible calling or business, it is rightly 
judged that I must be living on my private for- 
tune — I am so classed by my neighbors ; and, by 
the courtesy of modern England, I am usually ad- 
dressed on letters, etc., Esquire. . . . 

Am I married ? Not yet. And I still take opi- 
um ? On Saturday nights. And, perhaps, have 
taken it unblushingly ever since " the rainy Sun- 
day," and " the stately Pantheon," and the " Sci- 
entific druggist " of 1804 ? Even so. And how do 
I find my health after all this opium-taking V In 
short, how do I do ? Why, pretty well, I thank 
you. reader. In fact, if I dared to say the real 


and siinplt' truth (th<mj;h, in order to satibfj' the 
theories of some iuedi<'al men, I ought to be ill), 
I was never lietter in my life than in the year 
1812 : antl I hone since 'ly that the quantity of 
claret, iH)rt, or ■ ' London particular Madeira," 
which, in all prnhahility, > ou, good reader, have 
taken and design to take, for every term of eight 
years during youi natural life, may as little dis- 
order your health jus mine .vjis disordered by all 
tlie oiiium I liad taken (though in ijuantity such 
that I might well liave bathed and swum in it) for 
the eight years \ieU een 1804 and IHVi.—Autobio- 
(jraph ic Sketches. 

The next sketcli which we present relates to 
the year 1^1(5, very soon after the marriage of 
De Quincey : 


Let there be a cottage standing in a valley eight- 
een miles from any town , no spacious valley, but 
about two miles long by three-cjuarters of a mile 
in average width : the l)enefit of which i)rovision 
is tliat all families resident within its circuit will 
comprise, as it were, one large household, i)erson- 
ally familiar to your eye, and more or less inter- 
esting to your affections. Let the mountains be 
real mounUiins, between 3.000 and 4,.)00 feet high, 
and the cottage a real cottage, not (as a witty avf- 
thor has it) "a cottage with a double coach- 
house ;" let it be, in fact (for I must abide by the 
actual scene) a white cottage, embowered with 
flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succes- 
sion of flowers up)on the walls, and clustering 
around the windows, through all the months of 
Spring. Summer, and Autumn, beginning, in fact, 
with May roses, and ending with jasmine. Let 
it. however, not be Spring, nor Summer, nor Au- 
tumn, but Winter in its sternest .^ihape. . . . 

But here, to save myself the trouble of too much 
verbal description. I will introduce a painter, and 
give him directions for the rest of the picture. 
Painters do not like white cottages, unless a good 
deal weather-stained ; but as the reader now un- 


dcrstands that it is a Winter night, his services 
will not be required except for the inside of the 

Paint me,, then, a room seventeen feet by 
twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet 
high. This, reader, is somewhat ambitiously 
styled, in my family, the "drawing-room;" but 
being contrived " a double debt to pay," it is also, 
and more justly termed '• the library ;" for it hap- 
pens that books are the only article of property in 
which I am richer than my neighbors. Of these I 
have about five thousand, collected gradually 
since my eighteenth year. Therefore, painter, 
put as many as you can into this room. Make it 
populous with books : and furthermore paint me a 
good fire, and furniture plain and modest, befit- 
ting the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And 
near the fire paint me a tea-table ; and (as it is 
clear that no creature can come to see me on such 
a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers 
upon the tea-tray ; and if you know how to paint 
such a thing, symbolically or otherwise, paint me 
an eternal teapot— eternal a parte ante and d 
parte post ; for I usually drink tea from eight 
o'clock at night to four in the morning. And as 
it is very unpleasant to make tea. or to pour it out 
• for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman sit- 
ting at the table. Paint her arms like Aurora's, 

and her smiles like Hebe's : — but no, dear M ! 

not even in jest let me insinuate that thy power to 
illuminate my cottage rests upon a tenure so per- 
ishable as mere personal beauty, or that the witch- 
craft of angelic smiles lies within the empire of 
any earthly pencil. 

Pass, then, my good painter, to something more 
within its power ; and the next article brought 
forward should naturally be myself— a pictm-e of 
tlie Opiimi-eater, with his "little golden recept- 
acle of the pernicious drug " Ij'ing beside him on 
the table. As to the opium, I have no objection 
to see a picture of that : you may paint it if you 
choose ; but I apprise you that no "little" recept- 
acle would even in 1816, answer my purpose, who 
was at a distance from the "stately Pantheon" 


and all druggLsts (mortal or otherwise). No, you 
may as well paint the r(>al receptacle, which was 
not of gold, but of glass, and as much like a sublu- 
nary wine-decanter as possible. In fact, one day, 
by a series of happily conceived experiments, I 
discovered that it was a decanter. Into this you 
may put a quart of ruby-colored laudanum ; that 
and a book of (xernian metaphysics placed by its 
side, will sufficiently attest my being in the neigh- 
borhood. — Autobiographic Sketches. 

De Qiiincey began the use of opium in 1804, 
he being then in his nineteenth j'car. He had 
come up from Oxford to London, For a 
week or two he had suffered from neuralgia, 
and a friend advised him to take laudanum 
to allay the intense pain ; so one rainy Sun- 
day he entered a druggist's shop in Oxford 
Street, "near the stately Pantheon," pur- 
chased a vial of the drug, and carried it to 
his lodgings. The effect of the first dose was 
something magical; not only was the pain 
removed, but it acted upon him as an intel- 
lectual stimulant and exhilarant. From that 
day to his death— fifty-five years — there were 
probably few days in which he did not use 
opium in some form ; at first habitually in 
moderate doses ; only on Saturdays he was 
wont to shut himself up for what he calls a 
"opium debauch." This appears to have 
been his condition up to 1812. " It was then," 
he writes, " that I became a regular and con- 
firmed (no longer an intermitting) opium- 
eater." From this time the quantity con- 
sumed grew larger and larger until it rose to 
320 grains of solid opium, or 8,000 drops of 
laudanum a day — that is to about seven wine- 
glasses. Not long before his marriage, in 
1816, he reduced the quantity by seven-eighths 
— taking for a year or more only 1,000 drops 
of laudanum instead of 8,000 a day. " That 
was," he says, "a year of brilliant water (to 


speak after the manner of jewellers) set, as it 
were, and insulated in the gloomy umbrage 
of opium." But the reformation was brief; 
during the following two years he not only 
resumed his former rate of consumption, but 
increased it to sometimes 12,000 drops a day. 

He had long meditated a great philosophical 
work, to be entitled De Emendatione Humani 
Intellectus, but the opium-habit had rendered 
him incapable of any continuous use of his 
intellectual powers, and the idea was tacitly 
abandoned. At this time he happened to re- 
ceive a copy of Ricardo's Principles of Politi- 
cal Economy. The author, he said, was the 
first man who has shot light into what had 
hitherto been a dark chaos of materials. " He 
wrote, or dictated to his gentle wife thoughts 
which grew out of his reading ; and in time 
the manuscript for a book to be called Pi'o- 
legomenato all Future Systems of Political 
Economy was completed all but a few pages. 
Arrangements had been made for printing it: 
but when a thing must be done, De (^uincey 
found himself unable to do it ; the arrange- 
•ments were countermanded, and the work 
was left unfinished. 

Early in 1819 De Quincey found himself in 
great pecuniary straits. This seems to have 
enabled him partially to shake off the fetters 
of opium, and to do something. He gladly 
accepted the offer of the editorship of the 
Westmoreland Gazette, a journal which had 
been set up by some gentlemen who called 
themselves ' ' Friends of the Constitution, " to 
oppose the ' ' infamous leveling doctrines " of 
Mr. Brougham and the Whigs. The salary- 
was to be three guineas a week ; but as the 
paper was published at Kendal, some leagues 
from his home, De Quincey acceded to an ar- 
rangement by which two guineas a week was 
to be paid to a sub-editor on the spot, he him- 


self receiving only one guinea. His career as 
editor was not a very successful one, and 
lasted only about a year. He had, however, 
made some kind of arrangement to write for 
Blackwood and The Quarterly Review — en- 
gagements which would bring him £180 a 
year; at least so he wrote to his wealthy 
uncle, who had returned to India, concluding 
with a request to be allowed to draw upon 
him for £500, "say £150 now, and the other 
£350 in six or eight months hence." It was 
his purpose, he added, to remove to London, 
and resume his training for the profession of 
the law. But his destiny was to shape itself 
quite otherwise. 

The leading metropolitan Magazine was 
then The London Magazine, which had a 
brilliant corps of contributors, among whom 
were Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, Allan 
Cunningham, Henry Francis Cary, and 
"Barry Cornwall." The booksellers, Taylor 
and Hessey, who were the publishers, were 
also the nominal editors; but for assistant 
editor there was a young man of twenty- 
three, named Thomas Hood. In this Maga- 
zine for September, 1821, appeared an article 
of twenty pages entitled Confessions of an 
Opium-eater, being an Extract from the Life 
of a Scholar; to which was appended an edi- 
torial note stating that "the remainder of 
this very interesting article will be given in 
the next Number." The Second Part of the 
Confessions appeared in October. These 
papers excited no little attention, and a con- 
tinuation of them was strongly urged. This 
was promised by the author ; but the matter 
was never furnished, and in September, 1822, 
the two parts of the Confessions were pub- 
lished in a small volume, with an apology 
from the publishers for the failure to supply 
the continuation. Among the most striking 


passages in the Confessions, are those in 
which De Quiucey describes his later dreams 
while under the influence of opium. Two of 
these may be taken as exemplars of many : 


Southern Asia, in general, is the seat of awful 
images and associations. As the cradle of the hu- 
man race it would have a dim and reverential feel- 
ing connected with it. But there are other rea- 
sons. No man can pretend that the wild, barbar- 
ous, and capricious superstitions of Africa, or of 
savage tribes elsewhere* affect in the way that he 
is affected b}^ the ancient monumental, cruel, and 
elaborate religions of Hindostan. etc. The mere 
antiquity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, 
history, modes of faith, etc., is so impressive that 
to me the vast age of the race and name over- 
powers the sense of youth in the individual. A 
young Chinese seems to me an antediluvian man 
renewed. Even Englishmen, though not bred in 
any knowledge of such institutions, cannot but 
shudder at the mystic sulilimity of castes that have 
flowed apart, and refused to mix, through such 
immemorial tracts of time, nor can any man fail 
• to be awed by the names of the Ganges or the 

It contributes much to these feelings that South- 
ern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, 
the part of the world most swarming with hu- 
man life ; the great offlcina gentmm. Man is a 
weed in those regions. The vast empires also, 
into which the enoi'mous population of Asia has 
always been cast gives a further sublimity to the 
feelings associated with all oriental names or im- 
ages. In China over and above what it has in 
common with the rest of Southern Asia — I am 
terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and 
by the barrier of utter abhorrence and want of 
sympathy placed between us by feelings deeper 
than I can analyze. I could sooner live with lu- 
natics or brute animals. 

All this, and much more than I can say, or have 
time to say, the reader must enter into before he 


can comprehend the unimaginable horrors with 
wliich these dreams of oriental imagery and myth- 
ological tortures impressed upon me. Under the 
connecting feelings of tropical heat and vertical 
sunlights I brought together all creatures, birds, 
bejists and reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and 
apj)earances, that are to be found in all tropical 
regions, and assembled them in China or Ilindo- 
stan. From kindred feelings I soon brought Egypt 
and all her gods under the same law. I was stared 
at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, 
by parroquets, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, 
and was fixed for centuries at the summit, or in 
secret rooms ; I was the idol ; I was tlie priest ; I 
was worshiped ; I was sacrificed. I fled from 
the wrath of Brama, through all the forests of 
Asia ; Vishnu liated me ; Siva laid wait for me. 
I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris ; I had done 
a deed, they said, which the Ibis and the Crocodile 
trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years 
in stone coffins, with Mummies and Sphinxes, in 
narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. 
I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles ; 
and was laid, confounded with all unutterable 
abortions amongst weeds and Nilotic mud. . . . 
Sooner or later came a reflux of feeling that swal- 
lowed up the astonishment, and left me, not so 
much in terror, as in hatred and abomination of 
what I saw. Over every form, and threat, and 
punishment, and dim siglitless incarceration, 
brooded a killing sense of Eternity and Infinity. 

Into these dreams only it was, with one or two 
exceptions, that any circumstances of physical 
horror entered. All before had been moral and 
spiritual terrors. But here the main agents were 
ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles — especially the 
last. The cursed crocodile became to me the ob- 
ject of more horror than all the rest. I was com- 
pelled to live with him, and (as always the case in 
my dreams) for centuries. Sometimes I escaped, 
and found mjself in Chinese houses. All the feet 
of the tables, sofas, etc.. soon became instinct 
with life. The aliominable head of the crocodile, 
and his leering eyes, looked out at me, multiplied 


into ten tliousancl repetitions, iinil I stood loiith- 
iny; and fascinated. So often did this hideous rep- 
tile haunt my dreams, that many times the very 
same dream 'was broken up in tlie very same way : 
I heard gentle voices speaking to me (I hear every- 
thing when 1 am sleeping), and instantly I awoke; 
it was broad noon, and my children were stand- 
ing, hand in hand, at my bedside, come to show 
me their colored shoes, or new frocks, or to let 
me, see them dressed for going out. No experi- 
ence was so awful to me, and at the same time so 
pathetic, as this abrupt translation from the dark- 
ness of the infinite to the gaudy summer air of 
highest noon, and from the unutterable abortions 
of miscreated gigantic vermin to the sight of in- 
fancy and innocent human creatures. — Opium- 


Suddenly would come a dream of far different 
character —a tumultuous dream — commencing 
with a music such as now I often heard in sleep — 
music of preparation and of awakening suspense. 
The undulations of tumults were 
like the opening of the Coronation Anthem ; and, 
like tJuit, gaA-e the feeling of a multitudinous 
movement of infinite cavalcades filing off, and the 
tread of innumerable armies. The morning was 
come of a mighty day — a day of crisis and of ulti- 
mate hope for human nature, then suffering mys- 
terious eclipse, and laboring in some dread ex- 
tremity. Somew^here, but I knew not where — 
somehow, but I knew not how — by some beings, 
but I knew not by whom — a battle, a strife, an 
agony, was traveling through all its stages — was 
evolving itself, like the catastrophe of some 
mighty drama, with which my sjrapathy was the 
more insupportable, from deepening confusion as 
to its local scene, its cause, its nature, and its un- 
decipherable issue. I (as is usual in dreams, 
where of necessity, we make oiirselves central to 
every movement) had the power — and yet not the 
power — to decide it. I had the power, if I could 
raise myself, to will it ; and yet again had not the 


power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was 
upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt. 
■'Deeper than ever plummet sounded," I lay in- 
active. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepen- 
ed. Some greater interest was at stake, some 
mightier cause than ever yet the sword liad plead- 
ed, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sud- 
den alarms ; hurryings to and fro, trepidations of 
innumerable fugitives — I knew not whether from 
the good cause or the bad ; darkness and lights ; 
tempest and human faces ; and at last, with the 
sense that all was lost, female forms and the 
features that were worth all the world to me ; and 
but a moment allowed — and clasped hands, with 
heart-breaking partings ; and then everlasting 
farewells ! and with a sigh such as the caves of 
hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered 
the abhorred name of Death, the sound was rever- 
berated — everlasting farewells ! And again, and 
yet again reverberated — everlasting farewells ! — 
And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud, *' I 
will sleep no more ! "—Opium-eater. 

Although the promised continuation of the 
Confessions was not written, De Quincey 
contributed papers on many subjects, all 
bearing the signature of ' ' The Enghsh Opium- 
eater." His connection with the London 
Magazine lasted from his thirty-seventh to 
his forty-first year. During these four years 
he lived in humble lodgings in London, his 
family remaining at the cottage in Grassmere, 
where he visited them rarely, if ever. He 
intimates that the days of his opium-eating 
were past. But this must be taken in the 
qualified sense that he used smaller quantities 
upon the whole. To John Wilson he wrote 
in Febioiary, 1825 : 


At this time I am quite free from opium ; but 
it has left the liver — the Achilles's heel of almost 
every human fabric — subject to affections which 


are tremendous for the weight of wretchedness 
attached to them. To fence with these on the one 
hand, and with the other to maintain the war 
witli the wretclied business of hack-author, with 
all its horrible degradation, is more than lam able 
to bear. At this moment I have not a place to 
hide my head in. Something I meditate — I know 
not what. . . . With a good publisher, and leisure 
to premeditate what I Avrite, I might yet liberate 
myself : after which, having paid everybody, I 
would slink into some dark corner, educate my 
children, and show my face no more. 

It is certain that during this residence in 
London De Quincey was miserabty poor. 
Near the close of that year, as we learn quite 
incidentally, he received a considerable re- 
mittance from his mother, so that he was able 
to return to his family at Grassmere. John 
Wilson, with whom De Quincey had formed 
a close friendship while both resided in the 
Lake Region, was now the "Christopher 
North " of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine; 
and through his interest De Quincey was 
formally engaged as a contributor to that 
publication. His first paper, upon Lessing's 
Luocoon, was printed in January, 1827; next 
month appeared the famous essay On Murder 
Considered as One of the Fine Arts; and this 
was followed in March by the paper on The 
Toilette of a Hebreiv Lady. This connection 
with Blackimod naturally drew De Quincey 
to Edinburgh, where for the next three years 
he passed his time much as he did at 
Grassmere. Finally it was decided by, or 
rather for De Quincey, that his wife and 
children should come to him at Edinburgh. 
They accordingly left Grassmere in 1830, 
although De Quincey was nominally the 
tenant of the cottage there for several years 
longer. When the family was reunited at 
Edinburgh. De Quincey was forty-five years 


of age; his wife about thirty-two. During 
the next four years he was a frequent contrib- 
utor to Blackwood. Then there was an un- 
explained interruption of his papers in that 
periodical. But the connection was resumed 
in 1837, when appeared a narrative article 
enliWed. The Revolt of the Tartars; followed 
in succeeding years by many others, among 
which is the essay on Tlie Essenes. 

De Quincey had begun to write for Taifs 
Magazine, in which for several years ap- 
peared some of his most notable papers, 
prominent among which are the series enti- 
tled Sketches of Life and Manners from the 
Autobiography of an English Opium-eater. 
During these years at Edinburgh De Quincey 
developed those mai-ked eccentricities in per- 
sonal conduct of which his biographers have 
made so much. Domestic bereavements fol- 
lowed one after another. His youngest son 
died in 1833 at the age of five. Two years 
after, at the age of eighteen, died his eldest 
son, William, "my first-born child, the crown 
and glory of my life " wrote De Quincey long 
afterwards. Two years later — that is in 1837 
— died his wife to whom he had been married 
twenty-one years before. 

De Quincey, at the age of fifty-six was left 
a widower, with six children, Margaret the 
eldest being a girl yet in her teens. For a 
couple of years, De Quincey lived in lodgings 
by himself, which he had taken so that he 
might have a place for his books where he 
could carry on his literary labors. Then 
Margaret and her younger brother Horace 
took household matters into their own hands. 
Not without the consent of their father — who 
in all practical aflaii"s was as helpless as an 
infant — they took a pretty cottage at Lass- 
wade, seven miles from Edinburgh. That, of 
course, required money; but this was not 


wanting. Where it came from we can only- 
guess ; certainly not from De Quincey's own 
scanty earnings as a Magaziiiist ; most likely 
from his mother and her wealthy brother, 
now far advanced in years. This Lasswade 
cottage, known yet as "De Quincey's Villa," 
was his nominal home dui-ing the twenty re- 
maining years of his life, though much of it 
was spent in obscure lodgings at Edinburgh, 
where he did his work. He shifted these 
from time to time, as they became filled up 
with his accumulated books and papers. At 
one time, as we are told, he was paying rent 
for four or five such obscure lodging-places ; 
but whenever he walked out to Lasswade, 
there was a cheerful home ready for his re- 
ception. In a letter to Mary Russell Mitford 
he gives a pleasant description of his daugh- 
ters and of their life at Lasswade, after his 
sons, now grown up, had gone to follow their 
respective avocations ; one with the army in 
China ; another in India ; the third, as a phy- 
sician, to Brazil. 

DE quincey's daughters. 

They live in the most absolute h'&rmony I have 
ever witnessed. Such a sound as that of dissen- 
sion in any shade or degree, I have not once heard 
issuing from their hps. And it gladdens me be- 
yond measure that all day long I hear from their 
little drawing-room intermitting sounds of gaiety 
and laughter, the most natural and spontaneous. 
Three sisters more entirely loving to each other, 
and more unaffectedly drawing their daily pleas- 
ures from sources that will always continue to lie 
in their power, viz. , books and music, I have not 
either known or heard of. 

One of these sisters furnishes a picture of 
De Quincey when at home in the Lasswade cot- 
tage. One room was set apart for him, where 
he could work day and night to his heart's 


content. The evenings, or the intervals be- 
tween his daily working time and his nightly- 
working time or stroll, were spent in the 
drawing-room, with his children and any of 
his friends or theirs who happened to be 
present. Of this time his daughter says: 


The newspaper was brought out, and he, telling 
in his own delightful way, ratlier than reading 
the news, would on questions from this one or 
that one of the party, often including young 
friends of his children, neighbors, or visitors from 
distant places, illuminate tlie subject with such a 
wealth of memories, of old stories, of past or pres- 
ent experiences, of humor, of suggestions, even of 
prophecy, as by its very wealth makes it impos- 
sible to give any taste of it. . . . He was not a 
re-assuring man for nervous people to live with, as 
those nights were exceptions on which he did not 
set something on fire ; the commonest incident 
being for some one to look up from book or vvork 
to say casually, " Papa, your hair is on fire ; " of 
which a calm '' Is it, my love?" and a hand rub- 
bing out the blaze was all the notice taken. 

This idyllic way of life was brought to a 
close in the most natural way. In 1853 Mar- 
garet, the eldest daughter, was married to 
Robert Craig, the son of a neighbor, and the 
young couple took up their residence in Ire- 
land. Two years afterwards, Florence the 
second daughter went out to India to become 
the wife of Colonel Baird Smith, a distin- 
guished officer of Engineers, whose name ap- 
pears often in the history of the Sepoy mu- 
tiny. Emily, the youngest daughter, was 
thereafter much away visiting her sister in 
Ireland or other friends. After this De Quin- 
cey lived mainly in his modest lodgings in 
Edinburgh, where he could best perform his 
literary work which now assumed a new di- 
rection. The Boston house of Ticknor and 


Fields had already undertaken, Avith De Quin- 
cey's approbation and assistance, to bring 
out a collected edition of his Works, Mr. 
James T. Fields undertaking the labor of col- 
lecting the writings from the various periodi- 
cals in which they had from time to time ap- 
peared. This American edition begun in 1851, 
and completed in 1855, is in twenty volumes. 
In 1853 Mr. Hogg, the Edinburgh publisher 
arranged with De Quincey to prepare another 
edition of his Works. The two editions dilfer 
in this: The American edition comprises all 
the writings of De Quincey (with the excep- 
tion of Klosterheirn, a very poor novel, pub- 
lished in 1832, and never formally acknowl- 
edged by him) as they were originally written. 
The Edinburgh edition, not only omits many 
of the writings entirely, but also in many 
cases several papers are fused into one. The 
Edinburgh Edition in fourteen volumes (to 
which two more were added after the death 
of De Quincey) bore the title Selections, Grave 
and Gay, from ivritings, published and un- 
published, by Thomas De Quincey. 

During the later years of his life De Quin- 
cey had carefully ascertained the least quan- 
tity of opium which would render life en- 
durable, and he limited himself to that quan- 
tity — a very considerable one indeed. Up to 
the autumn of 1859, when he had entered 
upon his seventy-fifth year, his mental power 
was unabated. He indeed meditated writing 
a Histcn^y of England in twelve volumes, 
which he thought he could complete in four 
years. His physical health also was better 
than it had been at any period during the last 
half century. But late in October he took to 
his bed. There was no definite malady ; only 
the physical machine had run to the full time 
for which it had been wound up. His young- 
est daughter, who was upon a visit to her sis- 


ter in Ireland, was hastilj* summoned to his 
lodgings in Edinburgh, and found him too 
weak to bear removal to Lasswade. On the 
4th of December, his daughter, Mrs. Craig, 
was summoned from Ireland. She arrived 
just in time to be recognized and welcomed 
by her dying father. He passed away in the 
morning (»f the 8th, having been in a doze for 
several hours, occasionally murmuring some 
words about his father and his mother. All 
at once he threw up his arms, and exclaimed, 
as if in surprised recognition, "Sister! Sis- 
ter ! Sister ! " That sister was the one best- 
beloved of all, who had died seventj^ years 
before at the age of ten. That apparent re- 
cognition was his last act upon earth. 

Though De Quincey's career was distinct- 
ively that of a man of letters, he entered 
upon it at a later period of his life than did 
any great English author, with the single ex- 
ception of Cowper. The Confessions of an 
Opium-eater, his first, and perhaps his most 
notable work, was written at the age of thirty- 
six. That and all the rest of the twenty vol- 
umes of his collected Works, were written as 
Magazine articles, and for the mere sake of 
earning his daily bread — and his daily opium. 
Except from necessity he Avould most likely 
never have written a page for publication. Yet 
from the reading of his works no one would 
imagine that any of them were written except 
because he had something which he must say 
to the world. For amplitude of leai-ning, 
subtlety of thought, and magnificence of dic- 
tion, he has few equals in all our literature. 
Our citations are from the Edinburgh edition, 
which contains De Quincey's final emenda- 


Tliere were two groups or clusters of Grecian 
wits, two deposits or stratifications of the national 


genius ; and these were about a century apart. 
What makes them si)ecially rememberable is the 
fact that each -of these brilliant clusters had gath- 
ered separately about that man as their central 
pivot who, even apart from this relation to the 
literature, was otherwise the leading spirit of his 
age. The one was Pericles, the other was Alexan- 
der of Macedon. Except Themistocles, who may 
be ranked as senior to Pericles by one generation 
(or thirty-three years), in the whole deduction of 
Grecian annals no other public man — statesman, 
captain-general, administrator of the national re- 
sources — can be mentioned as approaching to 
these two men in splendor of reputation, or even 
in real merit. No man can pretend to forget two 
such centres as Pericles for the elder group, or 
Alexander of Macedon (the "strong he-goat" of 
Jewish prophecy) for the junior. Round these 
two foci, in two different but adjacent centuries, 
gathered the total stany heavens, the galaxy, the 
Pantheon of Grecian intellect. . . . 

That we may still more severely search the rela- 
tions in all points between the two sj-stcms, let us 
assign the chronological locus of each, because 
that will furnish another element towards the ex- 
act distribution of the chart representing the mo- 
tion and the oscillations of human genius. Peri- 
cles had a very long administration. He was 
Prime-Minister of Athens for upwards of one en- 
tire generation. He died in the year 429 before 
Christ, and in a very early stage of that great 
Peloponnesian war. which was the one sole intes- 
tine war for Greece, affecting every nook and an- 
gle of the land. Now, in this long pubHc life of 
Pericles we are at liberty to fix upon any year as 
his clironological locus. On good reasons, not 
called for in this place, we fix on the year 444 be- 
fore Christ. This is too remarkable to be forgot- 
ten. Four, four, four, what in some games of 
cards is called aprial{\ye presume, by an elision of 
the first vowel, for " parial '"). forms an era which 
no man can forget. It was the fifteenth year be- 
fore the death of Pericles, and not far from the 
bisecting year of his political life. 


Now, passing to the other system, the loous of 
Alexander is quite as remarkable, as little liable 
to be forgotten when once indicated, and more 
easy determined, because selected from a narrow- 
er range of clioice. Tlie exact chronological locus 
of Alexander is 333 j-ears before Christ. Every- 
body knows how brief was the career of this 
great man : it terminated in the year 325 before 
Christ. But the mums mirahili.s.of his public life, 
the most effective and productive year through- 
out his oriental annals, was the year 333 before 
Christ. Here we liave another prial. a period of 
threes for the locus of Alexander, if properly 
corrected. Tlius far the elements are settled, the 
chronological longitude and latitude of the two 
great planetary systems into which Greek litera- 
ture breaks up and distributes itself : 444 and 333 
are the two central years for the two systems ; al- 
lowing therefore, an interspace of 111 years be- 
tween the foci of each. . . . 

Passing onwards from Pericles, you find that all 
the rest of h is system were men in the highest 
sense creative, absolutely setting the very first 
example, each in his particular walk of composi- 
tion ; themselves without previous models, and yet 
destined, every man of them, to become models 
for all after generations ; themselves without 
fathers or mothers, and yet having all posterity 
for their children. First came the three divini 
spiritus under a heavenly afflatus — -^Eschylus, 
Sophocles. Euripides, the creators of Tragedy out 
of a village mummery ; next comes Aristophanes, 
who breathed the breath of life into Comedy ; 
then comes the great philosopher, Anaxagoras, 
who first theorized successfully on man and the 
world. Next come — whether great or not — the 
still more famous philosophers, Socrates, Plato, 
Xenophou ; then comes, leaning upon Pericles, 
as sometimes Pericles leaned upon him, the divine 
artist Phidias ; and behind this immortal man 
walk Herodotus and Thucydides. What a pro- 
cession to Eleusis would these men have formed ! 
what a frieze, if some great artist could arrange 


it as dramatically as Chaucer has arranged the 
Pilgrimage to Canterbury ! . . . . 

Now let us step on a hundred years forward. 
We are now- witliin hail of Alexander ; and a 
briUiant consistory of Grecian men is that by 
which he is surrounded. There are now exquisite 
masters of the more refined comedy ; tliere are 
again great philosophers, for all the great schools 
are represented by able successors ; and, above all 
others, there is the one philosoplier who played 
with men's minds (according to Lord Bacon's 
comparison) as freely as ever his princely pupil 
did with their persons — there is Aristotle. There 
are great orators; and, above all othex-s, that 
great orator whom succeeding generations (sArisely 
or not) have adopted as the representative name 
for what is conceivable as oratorical perfection — 
there is Demosthenes. Aristotle and Demos- 
thenes are in themselves bulwarks of power; 
many hosts lie in those two names. For artists, 
again, to range against Phidias, there is Lysippus 
the sculptor, and there is Apelles the painter. For 
great captains and masters of strategic art, there 
is Alexander himself, with a glittering cortege of 
general officers, well qualified to wear the crowns 
which they will win, and to head the dynasties 
which they will found. Historians there are now, 
as in the former age, and upon the whole it can- 
not be denied that the " turn-out" is showy and 
imposing. . . . 

Before comparing the second "deposit" (geo- 
logically speaking) of Grecian genius with the 
first, let us consider what it was (if anjthing) that 
connected them. Here reader, we would wish to 
put a question. Saving your presence, did you 
ever see what is called a dumb-bell ? We have, 
and know it by more painful evidence than that 
of sight. You, therefore, O reader I if personally 
cognizant of dumb-bells, we will remind, if not, 
■we will inform, that it is a cylindrical bar of iron 
or lead, issuing at each end in a globe of the same 
metal and usually it is sheathed in green baize. . . 

Now, reader, it is under this image of a dumb- 
bell that we couch our allegory. Those globes at 


each end are the two systems or separate clusters 
of Greek literature ; and that cyhnder which con- 
nects them is tlie long man that ran into each sys- 
tem, hinding the two together. Who was that? 
It was Isocrates. Great we cannot call him in 
conscience, and therefore by way of compromise 
we call him long, which in one sense he certainly 
was ; for he lived through four-and-twenty Olym- 
piads, each containing four solar years. He nar- 
rowly escaped being a hundred years old ; and 
though that did not carry him from centre to cen- 
tre, yet as each system might be supposed to pro- 
tend a radius each way of twenty years, he had, 
in fact, full personal cognizance (and pretty 
equally) of the two systems, remote as they are, 
which composed the total world of Grecian 
genius. . . . 

Now then, deader, you have arrived at that sta- 
tion from which you overlook the whole world of 
Greek literature, as a few explanations will soon 
convince 5'ou. Where is Homer ? where is Hesi- 
od ? you ask ; where is Pindar ? Homer and Hes- 
iod lived 1,000 years before Christ, or, by the 
lowest computation, near 900. For anything that 
we know, they may have lived with Tubal Cain. 
At all events, they belong to no power or agency 
that set in motion the age of Pericles, or that 
operated on that age. Pindar, again, was a solita- 
ry emanation of some unknown influences at 
Thebes, more than five hundred years before 
Christ. These are all that can be cited before 

Next, for the ages after Alexander, it is certain 
that Greece Proper was so much broken in spirit 
by the loss of her autonomy, dating from that 
era, as never again to have rallied sufficiently to 
produce a single man of genius — not one solitary 
writer who acted as a power upon the national 
mind. Callimachus was nobodj', and not de- 
cidedly Grecian. Theocritus, a man of real genius 
in a limited way, is a Grecian in that sense onlj' 
according to. which an Anglo-American is an 
Englishman. Besides that, one swallow does not 
make a summer. Of any other writers — above all 


others of Menander, apparently a man of divine 
genius — we possess only a few wrecks ; and of 
Anacreon, who must have been a poet of original 
power, we do not certainly know that we have 
even any wrecks : of those which i)ass under 
his name not merely the authorship, but the era, 
is very questionable indeed. Plutarch and Luci- 
an, the unlearned reader must understand, both 
belong to post-Christian ages. And for all the 
Greek emigrants who may have written liistories, 
such as we value for their matter more than for 
their execution, one and all, thej' belong too much, 
to Roman civilization that we sliould ever think 
of connecting tliem with native Greek literature. 
Polybius, in the days of the second Scipio, Dion 
Cassius, and Appian in the acme of Roman civil- 
ity, are no more Grecian authors because they 
wrote in Greek than the emperors Marcus Antoni- 
nus and Julian were other than Romans because, 
from monstrous coxcombry, they chose to write 
in Greek their barren memoranda. 


What is to be thought of her? What is to be 
thought of the poor sliepherd-girl from the hills 
and forests of Lorraine, that — like the Hebrew 
shepherd-boy from the hills and forests of Judea — 
rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, 
out of the religious inspiration rooted in deep pas- 
toral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, 
and to a more perilous station at the right iiand of 
kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic 
mission by an act, by a victorious act such as no 
man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if 
we read her story as it was read by those who 
saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to 
the boy as no pretender : but so they did to the 
gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw 
them from a station of good- will, both were found 
true and loyal to any promises involved in their 
first acts. Enemies it was that made the differ- 
ence between their subsequent fortunes. The boy 
rose to a splendor and a noon-day i^rosperity, both 
personal and public, that rang through the records 


of his people, and became a by-word amongst his 
posterity for a thousand years. The poor forsaken 
girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that 
cup of rest which she had secured for France. 
She never sang together with them the songs that 
rose from her native Domremy, as echoes to the 
departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in 
the festal dances at Vaucouleurs which celebrated 
in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for 
her voice was then silent. No ! for her feet were 

Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl ! whom, from 
the earliest jouth, ever I believed in as full of 
truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the 
strongest pledges for tliy side, that never once — 
no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou 
revel in the vision of coronets and honors from 
man. Coronets for thee ! O no. Honors, if they 
come when all is over, are for those that share thy 
blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude 
of the king shall awaken, thou shalt be sleeping 
with the dead. Call her. King of France, but she 
will not hear thee ! Cite her, by thy apparitors, to 
come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be 
found en contumace. When the thunders of uni- 
versal France, as even yet may happen, shall pro- 
claim tlie grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl that 
gave up all for her country — thy ear, young shep- 
herd-girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. 
To suffer and to do, that was tliy portion in life ; 
to do — never for thyself, always for others; to 
suffer — never in the persons of generous cham- 
pions, always in thy own : that was thy destiny ; 
and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. 
" Life," thou saidst, '"is short, and the sleep which 
is in the grave is long ; let me use that life, so 
transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams 
destined to comfort the sleep which is so long." 

This pure creature — pure from every suspicion 
of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was 
pure in senses more obvious — never once did this 
holy child, as regarded herself, relax her belief in 
the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She 
might not prefigure the Aery manner of her 


death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial 
altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators with- 
out end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a 
coronation ; tlie surging smoke, the volleying 
flames ; the hostile faces all around ; the pitying 
eye that lurked but here and there until nature 
and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial 
restraints : — these might not be apparent through 
the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice 
that called her to death, that she heard forever. 


I know theui thoroughly, and have walked in 
all their kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of one 
mysterious household, and their paths are wide 
apart ; but of their dominion there is no end. 
Them I saw often conversing witli Levana,* and 
sometimes about myself. Do they talk then ? 
Oh, no ! Mighty phantoms like these disdain the 
infirmities of language. They may utter voices 
through the organs of man, when they dwell in 
human hearts, but amongst themselves there is no 
voice nor sound ; eternal silence reigns in their 
kingdoms. They spake not, as they talked with 
Levana ; they whispered not ; they sang not ; 
though oftentimes methought they might have 
'sung : for I upon earth had heard their mysteries 
oftentimes deciphered by harp and timbrel, by 
dulcimer and organ. Like God, whose servants 
they are, they utter their pleasure, not by sounds 
that perish, or by words that go astray, but by 
signs in heaven, by changes on earth, by pulses in 
secret rivers, heraldries painted in darkness, and 
hieroglyphics written on the tablets of the brain. 
Tliey wheeled in mazes ; I spelled their steps. 
Tliey telegraphed from afar ; I read the signals. 
They composed together ; and on the min-or of 
darkness 7ny eye traced the plots. Theirs were 
the symbols ; mine are the words. What is it 
the sisters ai-e? What is it that they do ? Let me 

* Levana (the " lifter-up ") was the Roman Goddess of Ed- 
ucation, who was supposed to " lift up " every new-born hu- 
man being from the earth, in token that it should live ; and 
to rule the influences to which it should be subject thence- 
forth till its character should be fully formed . 


describe their form and their presence : if Form it 
were that still fluctuated in the outline, or Pres- 
ence it were that for ever advanced to the front, 
or forever receded amongst shades. 

The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachryma- 
ruvi, " Our Lady of Ti-ars." She it is that night 
and day raves and moans, calling for vanished 
faces. She stood in liama, where a voice was 
heard of lamentation — Rachel weeping for her 
children, and refusing to be comforted. She it 
was that stood in Bethlehem on the night when 
Herod's sword swept its nur?eries of innocents, 
and the little feet were stiffened forever, wliich, 
heard at times as they tottered along floors over- 
head, woke pulses of love in household hearts that 
were not unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are 
sweet and subtle, wild and sleepy, by turns ; 
oftentimes rising to the clouds, oftentimes chal- 
lenging the heavens. She wears a diadem round 
her head. And I knew by childish memories 
that she could go abroa<l upon the winds, when 
she heard the sobbing of litanies or the thunder- 
ing of organs, and when she beheld the mustering 
of summer clouds. 

This sister, the eldest, it is that carries keys more 
than papal at her girdle which open every cottage 
and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all 
last summer by the bedside of the blind beggar — 
him that so often and so gladly I talked with, 
whose pious daughter, eight years old, with the 
sunny countenance, resisted the temptations of 
play and village mirth to travel all da}- long on 
dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this did 
God send her a great reward. In the Spring time 
of the year, and whilst her own Spring was bud- 
ding, He took her to Himself. But her blind fa- 
ther mourns for ever over her ; still he dreams at 
midnight that the little guiding hand is locked 
within his own ; and still he awakens to a dark- 
ness that is now within a second and a deeper 
darkness. This Matci- Lachryiuarum also has been 
sitting all this winter of 1844-5 within the bed- 
chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a 
daughter not less pious, that vanished to God not 


less suddenlj", and left behind her a darkness not 
less profound. By the power of the keys it is that 
our Lad}' of Tears glides, a ghostly intruder, into 
the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, 
sleepless children, from Ganges to Nile, from Nile 
to Mississippi. And her, because she is tlie first- 
born of her house, and has the widest empire, let 
us honor with the title of Madonna. 

The second sister is called Mater-Suspiriorum, 
"Our Lady of Sighs." She neither scales the 
clouds nor walks abroad upon the winds. She 
wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they were 
ever seen, would be neither sweet nor subtle ; no 
man could read their story ; they would be found 
filled with perishing dreams, and with wrecks of 
forgotten ilelirium. But she raises not her eyes ; 
her head, on wliich sits a dilapidated turban, 
droops for ever, for ever fastens on the dust. She 
weeps iiot, she groans not. But slie sighs inaudi- 
bly at intervals. Her sister, IMadonna, is often- 
times stormy and frantic, raging in the highest 
against heaven, and demaniling back her dar- 
lings. But our Lady of Sighs never clamors, 
never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspirations. 
She is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meek- 
ness that belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she 
may, but it is in her sleep. Whisper she ma,}-, but 
it is to herself in the twilight. Mutter she does at 
times, but it is in solitary places that are desolate 
as she is desolate, in ruined cities and when the 
sun has gone down to his rest. 

This Sister is the visitor of the Pariah, of the 
Jew, of the bondsmim to the oar in the Mediter- 
ranean galleys ; of the English criminal in Nor- 
folk Island, blotted out from the books of remem- 
brance in sweet far-off England ; of the baffled 
penitent reverting his eyes for ever upon a solitary 
grave, which to him seems the altar overthrown 
of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which altar 
no oblations can now be availing, whether to- 
wards pardon that he might implore, or towards 
reparation that he might attempt. Every slave 
that at noonday looks up to the tropical sun with 
timid reproach, as he points with one hand to the 


earth, our general mother, but for him a step- 
mother — as he points with the other hand to the 
Bible, our general teacher, but against him sealed 
and sequestered ; every woman sitting in dark- 
ness, without love to shelter her head, or hope to 
illumine her solitude, because the heaven-born 
instincts kindling in her nature germs of holy 
affections, which God implanted in her womanly 
bosom, having been stifled by social necessities, 
now burn sullenly to waste, like sepulchral 
lamps amongst tlie ancients ; everj' nun defraud- 
ed of her unreturning Maytime by wicked kins- 
men, whom God will judge : all that are betrayed, 
and all tliat are rejected ; outcasts by traditionary 
law, and cliildren of hereditary disgrace — all of 
these walk with our Lady of Sighs. She also 
carries a key, but she needs it little. For her 
kingdom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem, 
and the houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in 
the very walks of man she finds chapels of her 
own ; and even in glorious England are some 
that, to the world, carry their heads proudly as 
the reindeer, who yet secretly have received her 
mark upon their foreheads. 

But the third sister, who is also the youngest ! 
Hush! whisper whilst we speak of hei' .' Her 
kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should live ; 
but within that kingdom all power is hers. Her 
head, turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost 
beyond the reacli of sight. She droops not ; and 
her eyes, rising so high, might be hidden by dis- 
tance. But being what they are, they cannot be 
hidden ; through the treble veil of crape which 
she wears, the fierce light of a blazing misery, 
that rests not for matins or for vespers, for noon 
of day or noon of night, for ebbing or for flowing 
tide, may be read from the very ground. 

She is the defier of God. She is also the mother 
of lunacies, and the suggestress of suicides. Deep 
lie the roots of her power, but narrow is the nation 
that she rules. For she can approach only those 
in whom a profound nature has been upheaved by 
central convulsions, in which the heart trembles 
and the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempests 

The Earl of DERBY. 281 

from without and tempest from witJiin. Madonna 
moves with uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still 
with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps 
timidly and' stealthily. But this youngest sister 
moves with iucalculahle motions, bounding, and 
with tiger's leaps. She carries no key ; for. though 
coming rarely amongst men, she storms all doors 
at which she is permitted to enter at all. And her 
name is Mater Tendbrarum, " Our L;idy of Dark- 

DERBY (Edward GeoFPrey Smith-Stan- 
ley), Earl of, an English statesman and 
scholar, born in 1799, died in 1869. He was 
educated at Eton and at Christchurch College, 
Oxford, where he distinguished himself in 
classical scholarship, gaining the prize for 
Latin verse in 1819. Up to 1835, he was 
styled simply Mr. Stanley; then, his father 
succeeding to the earldom of Derby, he was 
known by the ' ' courtesy-title " of Lord Stan- 
ley ; in 1844 he was summoned by writ to the 
House of Lords, as Baron Stanley of Bicker- 
staff; and upon the death of his father in 
1851, he succeeded as fourteenth Earl to the 
earldom of Derby, and to the great ancestral 
estates of the family in England and Ireland, 
Under all of these names and titles Lord Derby 
was eminent as a statesman. He fii-st entered 
Parliament in 1821, at the age of twenty-two, 
and soon took rank among the foremost 
orators of the time. From time to time he 
held various cabinet positions, the latest 
being that of Prime Minister (for the fourth 
time) in 1866-1868. He was succeeded in the 
earldom of Derby by his son, Edward Henry 
Siuth-Staxley (born in 1826j, who has held 
several of the highest positions, under various 
Administrations, in the British Government. 
In Literature the Earl of Derby is known 
almost wholly by his translation of the Iliad, 
of which the first edition appeared in 1864, 

282 The Eakl of DERBY. 

and the sixth, with many corrections, in 
1867. In the Preface to the first edition, Lord 
Derby says: 


Numerous as have been the translators of the 
Iliad, or parts of it, the metres wliicli liave been 
selected are almost as various : the ordinary 
couplet in rhjme, the Spenserian stanza, the 
Trochaic or Ballad metre, all have had their par- 
tisans, even to that " pestilent heresy " of the so- 
called Englisli Hexameter ; a metre wholly re- 
pugnant to the genius of our language ; which 
can only be pressed into the service by a violation 
of every rule of prosody. . . . But in the pro- 
gress of the work I have been more and more 
confirmed in the opinion that (whatever may be 
the extent of my own individual failure), if justice 
is ever to be done to the easy flow and majestic 
simplicity of the grand old Poet, it can only be in 
the Heroic blank verse. . . . 

I have adopted, not without hesitation, the 
Latin rather than the Greek nomenclature for the 
heathen deities. I have been induced to do so 
from the manifest incongruity of confounding the 
two ; and from the fact that though English 
readers may be familiar with the names of Zeus, 
or Aphrodite, or even Poseidon, those of Hera, or 
Ares, or Hephaestus, or Leto would hardly convey 
to them a definite signification. It has been my 
aim throughout to produce a translation, and not 
a paraphrase : not indeed such a translation as 
would satisfy, witSi regard to ea(;h word, the rigid 
re«]uirements of accurate scholarship ; but such as 
would fairly and honestly give the sense and 
meaning of every passage, and of every line ; 
omitting nothing, and expanding nothing ; and 
adhering, as closely as our language will allow, 
even to every epithet which is capable of being 
translated, and which has, in the particular pass- 
age, anything of a special and distinctive charac- 
ter. — Preface to the Translation of the Iliad. 

The Eakl uf DERBY. 383 


He left her thus, and to his forge returned ; 
The bellows then directing to the fire, 
He bade thefn work ; through twenty pipes at 
once [blasts ; 

Forthwith they poured their diverse-tempered 
Now briskly seconding his eager haste, 
Now at his will and as the work required. 
The stubborn brass, and tin, and precious gold, 
And silver ; first he melted in the fire, 
Then on its stand his weighty anvil placed ; 
And with one hand the hammer's ponderous 

He wielded, while the other grasped the tongs. 

And first a shield he fashioned, vast and strong, 
With rich adornment ; circled with a rim. 
Threefold, bright-gleaming, whence a silver belt 
Depended ; of five folds the shield was formed ; 
And on its surface many a fair design 
Of curious art his practised skill had wrought. 

Thereon w^ere figured earth, and sky, and sea, 
The ever-circling sun, and full-orbed moon. 
And all the Signs that crown the vault of heaven ; 
Pleiads, and Hyads, and Orion's might, 
And Arctos, called the Wain, who wheels on high 
His circling course, and on Orion waits ; 
Sole star that never bathes in the ocean wave. 

And two fair populous towns were sculptured 
there ; 
In one w^ere marriage pomp and revelry. 
And brides, in gay procession, through the streets 
With blazing torches from theii* chambers borne, 
While frequent rose the hymeneal song. 
Youths whirled around in joyous dance, with 

Of flute and harp ; and, standing at their doors, 
Admiring women on the pageant gazed. 

Meanwhile a busy throng the forum filled : 
There between two a fien-e contention rose, 
About a death-fine ; to the public one 
Appealed, asserting to have paid the whole ; 
While one denied tliat he had aught received. 
Both were desu'ous that l>efore the Judge 
The issue should be tried ; with noisy shouts 

284 The Earl of DERBY. 

Their several partisans encouraged each. 
The heralds stilled the tumult of v.i. crowd. 
On polished chairs, in solemn circle, sat 
The reverend Elders ; in their hands thej" held 
The loud-voiced lierald's sceptres ; waving tliese, 
Tliey heard the alternate pleadings ; in the midst 
Two talents lay of gold, Avhich he should take 
Who sliould before them prove his righteous 
Before the second town two armies lay, 
In arms refulgent ; to destroy the town 
The assailants threatened, or among themselves 
Of all the wealth witliin the city stored 
An equal half as ransom to divide. 
The terms rejecting, the defenders manned 
A secret ambush ; on the walls they placed 
Women and children mustered for defense, 
And men by age enfeebled ; forth they went, 
By Mars and Pallas led ; these wrought in gold. 
In golden arms arrajed, above the crowd 
For beauty and stature, as befitting gods, 
Conspicuous shone ; of lesser height the rest. 
But when the destined ambuscade was reached. 
Beside the river, where the shepherds drove 
Their flocks and lierds to water, down they lay, 
In glittering arms accoutred ; and apart 
They placed two spies, to notify betimes 
The approach of flocks of sheep and lowing herds. 
These, in two shepherds' charge, erelong appeared. 
Who, unsuspecting as they moved along, 
Enjoyed the music of their pastoral pipes. 
They on the bootj'. from afar discerned, 
Sprang from their ambuscade ; and cutting off 
The herds and fleecy flocks, their guardians slew. 
Their comrades heard the tumult, where they sat 
Before their sacred altars, and forthwith 
Sprang on their cars, and with fast-stepping 

Pursued the plunderers, and o'ertook them soon. 
There on the river's bank they met in arms. 
And at each other hurled their brazen spears. 
And there were figured Strife and Tumult wild. 
And deadly Fate, who in her iron grasp 
One newly wounded, one un wounded bore, 

The Earl of DERBY. 385 

While by the feet from out the press she dragged 
Another slain : about her shoulders hung 
A garment crimsoned with tlie blood of men. 
Like living men they seemed to move, to fight, 
To drag away the bodies of the slain. 

And there was graven a wide-extended plain 
Of fallow land, rich, fertile meadow-soil, 
Thrice ploughed ; where many plpughmen up and 

Their teams were driving ; and as each attained 
The limit of the field, would one advance, 
And tender him a cup of generous wine : 
Then would he turn, and to the end again 
Along the furrow cheerly drive his plough. 
And still behind them darker showed the soil, 
The true presentment of a new-])loughed field, 
Though wrought in gold : a miracle of art. 

There too was graven a cornfield, rich in grain. 
Where with sharp sickles reapers jjlied their task, 
And thick, in even swathe, tlie trusses fell ; 
The binders, following close, the bundles tied : 
Three were- the binders ; and behind them boys 
In close attendance vtaiting, in their arms 
Gathered'^ tlie bundles, and in order piled. 
Amid them, staff in hand, in silence stood 
The King, rejoicing in the plenteous swathe. 
A little way removed, the heralds slew 
A sturdy ox, and now beneath an oak 
Prepared the feast ; while women mixed, hard by, 
White barley porridge for the laborers' meal. 

And with rich clusters laden, there was graven 
A vineyard fair, all gold : of glossy black 
The bunches were, on silver poles sustained : 
Around, a darksome trench ; beyond, a fence 
Was wrought, of shining tin ; and through it led 
One only path, by which the bearers passed, 
Who gathered in the vineyard's bounteous store. 
There maids and youths, in joyous spirits bright. 
In woven baskets bore the luscious fruit. 
A boy, amid them, from a clear-toned harp 
Drew lovely music : well his liquid voice 
The strings accompanied ; they all with dance 
And song harmonious joined, and joyous shouts. 
As the gay bevy lightly tripped along. 

286 The Earl of DERBY. 

Of straight-horned cattle too a herd was graven: 
Of gold and tin the heifers all were wrought : 
They to the pasture, from the cattle-yard, 
With gentle lowings, by a babbling stream. 
Where quivering reed-beds rustled, slowly moved. 
Four golden shepherds walked beside the herd, 
By nine swift dogs attended ; then amid 
The foremost heifers sprang two lions fierce. 
Upon the lordly bull : he, bellowing loud. 
Was dragged along, by dogs and youths pursued. 
The tough buU's-hide they tore, and gorging 

The intestines and dark blood ; with vain attempt 
The herdsmen following closely, to the attack 
Cheered their swift dogs ; these shunned the 

lion's jaws. 
And close around them baying, held aloof. 

And there the skilful artist's hand had traced 
A pasture broad with fleecy flocks o'erspread. 
In a fair glade, with folds, and tents, and pens. 

There, too, the skilful artist's hand had wrought 
With curious workmanship, a mazy dance, 
Like that which Daedalus in Cnossus erst 
At fair-haired Ariadne's bidding framed. 
There, laying each on other's wrists their hand, 
Bright youths and many-suitored maidens danced : 
In fair white linen tliese, in tunics those, 
Well woven, shining soft with fragrant oils ; 
These with fair coronets were crowned, while 

With golden swords from silver belts were girt. 
Now whirled they round with nimble practised 
Easy, as when a potter, seated, turns [feet, 

A wheel, new fashioned by his skilful hand, 
And spins it round, to prove if true it run ; 
Now featly moved in well-beseeming ranks, 
A numerous crowd around, the lovely dance 
Surveyed, delighted ; while an honored Bard 
Sang, as he struck the Ij^re, and to the strain 
Two tumblers, in the midst, were whirling round. 

About tlie margin of the massive shield 
Was wrought the mighty strength of the Ocean 

The shield completed, vast and strong, he forged 


A breast-plate, dazzling bright as flame of fire ; 
And next, a weiglity lielmet for hia head, 
Fair, richly wrought, with crest of gold above ; 
Then last, well-fitting greaves of pliant tin. 

The skilled artificer his works complete 
Before Achilles's Goddess-mother laid : 
She, like a falcon, from the snow-clad heights 
Of huge Olympus, darted swiftly down. 
Charged with the glittering arms by Vulcan 

—ffiad XX., 528-700. 

DERZHAVIN, Gabriel, (properly, Der- 
SHAWiN, Gavril Romanowitsch), a Russian 
statesman and poet, born in 1743, died in 
1816. He was of noble Tartar descent; en- 
tered the gymnasium at Kazan, his birth- 
place, in 1758 ; thence he went to St. Peters- 
burg, entered the military, and subsequently 
the civil service. In 1791 the empress Cath- 
arine II. made him Secretary of State, and a 
few years afterwards President of the College 
of Commerce. Upon the accession, in 1766, 
of Paul to the imperial throne, Derzhavin 
was placed at the head of the Council of 
State. In 1800 he became Imperial Treasur- 
er, and in 1802 Minister of Justice. A com- 
plete edition of his Works, in five volumes, 
was put forth at St. Petersburg in 1810-15. 
They comprise an Ode on the birth of the 
Emperor Alexander, one on Irreligion, and 
the magnificent one upon God, which has 
been translated into many Oriental and most 
Occidental languages. 


O thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 

Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight. 
Thou only God ; — there is no God beside ! 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! 
Whom none can compreheHd, and none explore. 


Who fillest existence with Thyself alone : 
Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er : 
Being, whom we call Ciod — and know no more ! 

In its sublime research. Philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep, may count 
The sands or the sun's rays : but, God I for Thee 

There is no weight nor measure, none can 
Up to Thy mysteries : Reason's brightest spark, 

Though kindled liy Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so 

E'en like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First Chaos, then Existence ; — Lord, on Thee 
Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprang forth from Thee — of light, joy, haxmony, 
Sole origin : all life, all beauty Thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art and wert, and shalt be ! glorious, 

Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround. 
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! 

Thou the beginning and the end has bound. 
And beautifully mingled life and death. 

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 

And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand. 
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 

They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 

What shall we call them ? — Piles of crystal light, 
A glorioiis company of golden streams, 

Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright, 


Suns of lighting systems, with their joyous 

beams ? 
But thou to those are as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a dr6p of water to the sea, 
All this magnificence in Thee is lost : 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 
And what am I, then 'i Heaven's unnumbered 

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 

Against Thy greatness ; is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I, then ? — Naught ! 

Naught ! But the effluence of Tin' light divine, 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too : 
Yes, in my spirit doth Tliy spirit shine. 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 

Eager toward Thy presence : for in Thee 
I live and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high, 

Even to the eternal throne of Thj- divinity ; 

I am, O God ! and surely Thou must be ! 

Thou art ! directing, guiding all, Thou art ! 

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart. 

Though but an atom 'mid immensity. 
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand ; 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 

Close to the realm where angels have their 

Just on the boundary of the spirit land ! 

The claim of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost ; 
And the next step is Spirit— Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust I 
A monarch and a slave : a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? so marvelously 
Constructed and conceived V Unknown? This 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

From out itself alone it could not be. 


Creator ! yes ! Thy wisdom and thy word 
Created me. Thou source of life and good ! 

Thou, spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
Tliy light, Thy love, in their briglit i)lenitude, 

Filled me with an immortal soul to spring 
O'er the abyss oi death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere, 
E'en to its source — to Thee— its Author— there ! 

O thought ineffable ! O vision blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, 

And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good — 
"Mid thy vast works, admire, obey, adore ; 

And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude. 
—Traml. of Bo wring. 


O iron tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic 

The terrible voice affrights me : 
Each beat of the clock summons me, 
Calls me. and hurries me to the grave. 
Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world, 
Ere Death grinds its teeth, 
And with his scythe that gleams like lightning. 
Cuts off my days, which are but grass. 

Not one of the horned beasts of the field, 

Not a single blade of gi-ass escapes. 

Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm. 

The noxious elements feed the gi-ave. 

And Time effaces all human glory ; 

As the swift waters rush towards the sea. 

So our days and years flow into Eternity, 

And Empires are swallowed up by greedy Death. 

We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss. 
Into which we quickly fall headlong : 
With our first breath of life we inhale death, 
And are only born that we may die. 


Stars are shivered by liiiii, 
And suns are momentarily quenched, 
Each world trembles at his menace, 
And Death unpityingly levels all. 

The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die, 
And idly dreams himself immortal. 
When Death comes to him as a thief,- 
And in an instant robs him of his lifeii 
Alas, where fondly we fear the least, 
There will Death the sooner come ; 
Nor does the liglitning-bolt with swifter blast 
Topple down the towering pinnacle. 

Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight, 

Mestchasky, where hast thou hidden thyself ? 

Thou hast left the realms of light, 

And withdrawn to the shores of the dead ; 

Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us. 

Where is it ? It is there. Where is there ? We 

know not. 
We can only ^veep and sob forth, 
Woe to us that we were ever born into the world ! 

They who are radiant with health, 

Love joy and peace, 

Feel their blood run cold 

And their souls to be fretted with woe. 

Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands 

a coifin : 
Where but now rose mad cries of revelry. 
There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners ; 
And over all keeps Death his watch : 

Watches us one and all — the mighty Czar 
Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a 

world : 
Watches the sumptuous Dives, 
Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods ; 
Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms ; 
Watches the sage, proud of his intellect : 
Watches the strong man, confident in his strength: 
And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of 

his scvthe. 


O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling ! 

Man, thou strange mixture of grandevu" and of 

nothingness ! 
To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth : 
To-day buoyed up with clieating hope, 
And to-morrow, where art thou, man? 
Scarce an hour of triurnpli allowed thee, 
Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of 

And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run. 

Like a dream, like some sweet vision, 
Already my youth has vanished quite. 
Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway, 
Gladness no more, as once, entrances me, 
Mj' mind is no longer free and fanciful, 
And all my happiness is changed. 

1 am troubled for a longing for fame ; 

I listen ; the voice of fame now calls me. 
But even so will manhood pass away, 
And together witli fame all my aspirations. 
The love of wealth will tarnish all, 
And each passion in its turn 

Will sway the soul and pass. [grasp ! 

Avaunt happiness, that boasts to be within our 
All happiness is but evanescent and a lie : 
I stand at the gate of eternity. 
—Transl. o/ Charles Edward Turner. 

DESCARTES, (or DesCartes, Latinized 
into Cartesius), Ren^, a French philosopher, 
bom in 1596, died in 1650. He was of a noble 
family in Touraine ; was trained in the Jes- 
uit College of La Fleche, where he prosecut- 
ed his philosophical studies with great suc- 
cess. But in compliance with the wishes of 
his familj' he entered the army in 1616, and 
saw considerable military service during the 
ensuing five years. Leaving the army, he 
traveled for several years in various parts of 
Europe, devoting himself to a close observa- 
tion of natural phenomena, and to the formu- 
lation of his theory of the principles of hu- 
man knowledge. He acquired a high reputa- 


tion among all learned men, and is justly 
placed by the side of Bacon, Newton, and Kant 
among the founders of modern philosophical 
research, which he pushed into every depart- 
ment of physical and metaphysical investiga- 
tion. In 1644 he put forth his Principia Phi- 
losophice, and soon after received a pension 
of 3000 livres from the King of France. In 
1648 Queen Christina of Sweden invited him 
to come to Stockholm as director of an 
Academy which she proposed to found, with 
a salary of 3000 crowns. He died in two years, 
and was buried at Stockholm; but sixteen 
years afterwards, Louis XIV. caused his re- 
mains to be brought to Paris, where they 
were re-interred in the church of Ste. Gene- 
vieve du Mont. — The writings of Descartes, 
some in Latin, some in French, are very nu- 
merous. The latest, and probably best edi- 
tion, is that of Victor Cousin, (Euvres Com- 
pletes de Descartes ( 1 1 vols. 1824-1826) . No en- 
tire translation into English of any of his 
works has been published : but Prof. Mahaf- 
fy's volume upon Descartes (London, 1885), 
contains a fair summary of his teachings, in 
the various departments of human knowl- 
edge, with translations of the important 

As to the understanding conceded by Mon- 
taigne and others to brutes, I differ, not for the 
reason usually alleged that man possesses an ab- 
solute dominion over the brutes, which may not 
always be true, either as regards strength or cun- 
ning ; but I consider that they imitate or surpass 
us only m those actions which are not directed by 
thought — such as walking, eating, and putting 
our hands out when we are falling. And people 
who walk in their sleep are said to have swum 
across rivers, in which they would have been 
drowned had they awaked. As regards the move- 


ments of the passions, although they are accom- 
panied in us by thought, because we possess that 
faculty, it is yet plain that they do not depend 
upon it, because they occur often in spite of it, so 
that even their more violent occurrence in the 
brutes can not prove to us that they have thoughts. 
In fine, there is no single external action which 
can convince those who examine it that our body 
is not merely a machine wliich moves of itself, 
but has in it a thinking mind, except the use of 
words, or other signs (such as those of mutes) 
made in relation to whatever presents itself, with- 
out any regard to tlie passions. This excludes the 
talking of parrots, and includes that of the in- 
sane, as the latter may be « propoti, though it be 
absurd, while the former is not. It also excludes 
the cries of joy or pain, as well as all that can 
be taught to animals by acting on their hopes or 
fears of bodily pleasure or pain ; which is the 
principle of all training of animals. 

It is remarkable that language, so defined, ap- 
plies to man only ; for although Montaigne and 
Charron say there is more difference among 
men than between men and brutes, there has 
never yet been found a brute so perfect as to use 
some sign to inform other animals of things 
not relating to their passions ; nor is there any 
man so imperfect who does not use such signs — 
even the deaf and dumb inventing them. This 
latter fact seems to prove tliat it is not from a 
want of organs that brutes do not speak. Nor can 
we argue that they talk among themselves, but 
that we do not understand them ; for dogs ex- 
press to us their passions so well that they 
could certainly express their thoughts if they had 

I know that the beasts do many things better 
than we do, which only proves that they act by 
natural springs like a clock, which marks time 
better than we can determine it by our judgment. 
The habits of bees, the return of the swallows, 
and the order of flying cranes, and the supposed 
battle-order of monkeys, is of the same kind ; and 
finally that of dogs and cats, which scratch tlie 


earth to bury their excrements, though tliey hard- 
ly ever really do so ; which shows that they do it 
by instinct, -without thinking. We can only say 
that though the beasts perform no acts winch can 
prove to us that they think, still, because of the 
likeness of their organs to ours, we may conject- 
ure that there is some thought joined to them, as 
we perceive in our own case, although tlieirs must 
be far less perfect. To this I have nothing to reply, 
except that, if they thought as we do, they must 
liave an immortal soul, which is not likely, as we 
have no reason to extend it to some animals with- 
out extending it to all — such as worms, oysters, 
sponges, etc. 


Among our thoughts, some are as it were images 
of things, and to these only is properly applied the 
term idea, as when I have before me a man, a 
chimaera, heaven, an angel, or even God. Other 
thoughts have a different form, as when I wish or 
fear, affirm or deny ; then I conceive, indeed, 
something as the subject of my mental action, 
but I also add something else by this action to the 
idea in my mind ; and of this kind of thoughts, 
some are called volitions or affections, and the rest 
judgments. The mere perception of ideas cannot 
possibly contain any error ; it is in our judgments 
concerning them that error consists. Thus I infer 
from these ideas that they are produced by ex- 
ternal objects like them, because I fancy that I 
am so taught by nature, and because they do not 
depend upon my will. And yet these inferences 
may be false. For being taught by nature means 
not only the evidence of that natural light which 
is the highest and most perfect guarantee of the 
truth of our simple intuitions — it may also mean a 
certain spontaneous inclination, a blind and rash 
impidse. which certainly deceives me, for ex- 
ample, in the choice between virtue and vice, and 
therefore cannot be trusted in the distinction of 
truth and falsehood. Thus our ideas might be 
produced by no external cause, but by some as yet 
undiscovered faculty within ourselves ; and even 

296 Sir AUBREY De VERE. 

if they vvere, this external cause need not resemble 
our ideas. Naj', in many cases we know that it 
does not. It is only by reflecting carefully on the 
truth revealed to us by natural light, that all ideas 
of mental objects nuist be derived* from causes 
which contain foriually all the reality possessed 
ol)jectively by the ideas, that I am able to deduce 
this conclusion : All the ideas of body which 
are clear to my mind — viz., trinal extension, fig- 
ure, place, movement, substance, duration, and 
mmiber — are real and true ; those of light, color, 
taste, heat, cold, etc., are so obscure and con- 
fused, that nature teaches me nothing about their 
reality or their causes. They may even proceed 
from non-being, or from some want in my nature. 
And so of many other ordinary prejudices, which 
have infected not only common life, but even, 


When I come to examine the cause of the many 
errors which are manifestly made by human na,- 
ture, I find that together with the idea of a Being 
of sovereign perfection, I have as its opposite a 
negative idea of non-being {le neant) — that is, 
of what is infinitely removed from all perfection ; 
and that I am, so to speak, intermediate between 
the sovereign Being and non-being, that there is 
notliing in me which can lead to error, in so far 
as the sovereign Being has produced me. But 
if I regard myself as participating to some extent 
in the neant or non-being — viz., in so far as I am 
not myself the sovereign Being, and that I am de- 
ficient in several tilings — I find myself exposed to 
an infinity of deficiences. And thus I know that 
error, as such, is nothing real depending on God, 
but only a defect ; and that to en- I require no 
particular faculty given me by God for that pur- 
pose, but it merely happens that I am deceived be- 
cause the power given me bj^ God to discern truth 
from falsehood is not infinite. 

De VERE, Sir Aubrey, an Irish poet, bom 
in 1788, died in 1846. He published three 

Sir AUBREY De VERE. 297 

di-amatic poems, Julian the Apostate (1822), 
The Duke of Mercia aS2S), and Mary Tudor 
(1847) ; and -also, A Song of Faith and Other 
Poems (18'42j. 


A prison in the Tower. Lady Jane Gray, alone, 
sexjoing a shroud. She tuims an hour-glass. 

Jane. — I nevermore shall turn that glass. For 
Time is fulfilled : and ere those sands run down, 
My trembling fingers must complete their task — 
Their final task — or not in work of mine 
Shall his dear limbs, composed in death, be 
wrapped. [heart 

With what a speed they haste ! by mine own 
I count the flying seconds of liis life. 
Oh what a task for wedded bauds I — 'Tis done. 
And now I fold and lay thee to my bosom, 
Which his espoused head so loved to press. 

Enter the Duchess of Suffolk. 
What noise is that ? — not time — it is not time ? 
Oh my dear Mother. [Falls on her neck. 

Duehess. — Wretched — wretched Mother ! 

Jane. — It is not much to die. Whoever faints 
Has tasted death, waking in pain to sorrow. 
Have comfoi-t. — Desolate I leave jou not : 
^y father near and other duteous daughters. 

Duchess. — Th}" father hath gone forth and 
raised his banner [doom. 

To dare the Queen. This act hath sealed thy 
The father slays his child ! 

Jane. — God's wUl be done ! 

How dark so e'er his ways or blind our eyes ! 
My precious mother 1 weep not — leave me some 
strength ! 

Duchess. — Would I were dead ! 

Jane. — Live for my sister's sake. 

She needs thy counsel, and my sad example : 
For there is that in Herbert's father's heart. 
May move him to attempt the crown for her. 

Duchess. — O let her rather labor in the fields, 
And spin for bread beside a cottage hearth, 
Than step unto a throne ! Thou fatal Blood ! 

298 Sir AUBREY De VERE. 

Predestinated race ! all who partake 
Thy veins must jiour them forth on battle-fields, 
Or the foul scaffold ! Doomed Plantagenet ! 
Tlie Tudor follows in your steps. 

Jane. — Our sands 

Have almost run. I must be cjuick. Will he 
See me once more ? one last, last kiss bestow ? 

Duchess. — The malice of the Queen forbids. 

Jane. — Say mercy — 

Else were our hearts left beggared of all firmness. 
'Tis best thus. We shall meet — yes, ere yon sun, 
Now high in heaven, shall from the zenith stoop, 
Together will they lay us in one coflSn, 
Together our poor heads. Weep not, my mother ! 
But hear me. Promise you will see this done. 

Duchess. — I promise. 

Jane. — So our bones shall intermingle ; 

And rise* together, when the angelic trump 
Shall lift us to tlie footstool of our Judge ! 
What shall I give thee V — they have left me little — 
What slight memorial through soft tears to gaze 

This bridal ring — the symbol of past joy ? 
I cannot part witli it : upon tliis finger 
It must go down into tlie grave. Perchance 
After long years some curious liaml may find it. 
Bright like our better hopes, amid the dust. 
And piouslj^ with a low sigh, replace it. 
Here — take this veil, and wear it for my sake. 
And take this winding-sheet to him ; and this 
Small liandkerchief so wetted with my tears. 
To wipe the death-damp from his brow. This 

kiss — 
And this — my last — print on his lips and bid him 
Think of me to the last and wait my spirit. 
Farewell, my Mother ! farewell, dear, dear, Mother 
These terrible moments I must pass in i)rayer — 
For the dying — for the dead I farewell I farewell ! 

—Mary Tudor. 

He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 

Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue ; 
A stoic, reckless of the worlds vain taunt, 


And steeled the path of honor to pursue : 

So, when by all deserted, still he knew 
How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 

Sedition ; "schooled with equal eye to view 
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 

But when he saw that promised land arise 

In all its rare and bright varieties, 
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod. 

Then softening nature melted in his eyes : 
He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God ; 
And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod I 


Take back these vain insignia of command, 

Crown, truncheon, golden eagle — baubles all — 

And robe of Tyrian dye, to me a pall ; 
And be forever alien to my hand. 
Though laurel-wreathed, War's desolating brand. 

I would have friends, not courtiers, in my hall ; 

Wise books, learned converse, beauty free from 
And leisure for good deeds, thoughtfully planned. 

Farewell, thou garish world ! thou Italy, 

False widow of departed Liberty ! 
I scorn thy base caresses. Welcome the roll 

Between us of my own bright Adrian Sea I 
Welcome these wilds, from whose bold heights my 
Looks down on your degenerate Capitol ! [soul 

There is no remedy for time misspent : 

No liealing for the waste of idleness 
Whose very languor is a punishment 

Heavier than active souls can feel or guess : 
O hours of idleness and discontent. 

Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not less 
Because I know this span of life was lent 

For lofty duties, not for selfishness. 
Not to be wiled away in aimless dreams, 

But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind, 

Life and its choicest faculties were given. 
Man should be ever better than he seems. 

And shape his acts, and discipline his mind, 

To walk adorning earth with hope of heaven. 


De VERE, Maximilian Schele, an Ameri- 
can author, born near Wexio, Sweden, in 
1820. After some time spent in military and 
diplomatic sei'vice in Prussia, he emigrated to 
the United States, and in 1844 was appointed 
Professor of Modern Languages in the Uni- 
versity of Virginia. Besides several text- 
books for the study of the French, language, 
he is the author of Outlines of Comparative 
Philology (1853), Stray Leaves from the Book 
of Nature (1856), Studies of our English 
(1867), TJie Great Empress, a novel, and Won- 
ders of the Deep (1869), Americanisins (1871), 
and TJie English of the Neic World (1873). 
He has translated into English Spielhagen's 
Problematic Characters, Through Night to 
Light, and The Hohensteins. 


On many a plain, on lofty table-lands, or close 
to the ocean's restless pulse, wherever water gath- 
ers from a thou.sand invisible sources, little pools 
and miniature lakes are formed, which the clay- 
ey ground or solid rock beneatli prevents from 
reaching their great home in the sea. Upon these 
waters little tiny plants appear, hardly visible 
confervae ; they come, man knows not whence, 
but they multiply in amazing liaste, and soon cov- 
er the stagnant pool with living green. On a sud- 
den, however, they are gone ; they have sunk 
down to the bottom. There they form layer upon 
layer ; slowly, indeed, for the naked eye measures 
them only by hundreds of generations ; but a.s 
particles of sand and stone gather in their hidden 
folds, and as the bodies and shells of countless mi- 
nute animals, who found a home in the waters 
above, are buried amidst them, they rise year 
after year. Gradually they afford a footing and 
food for numerous water-worts, in whose mould- 
ering remains mosses and rushes begin to settle. 
These bind their roots firmly, they join hand in 
hand, and arm in arm, until at last they form a 
soft green cover of peaty mould, far and near, 


over the dark, mysterious waters. The older the 
moor, the firmer and stronger is. of course, this 
turf-cover over the brownish pool, that gives out a 
faint, but piercing fragrance. Near the sea-shore, 
and in rainy regions, larger quantities of waterfre- 
quently remain between the firm ground and the 
felt-like cover, so that the surface breathes and 
heaves like the waves of the great ocean. In drier 
countries, heath, hair-grass, and even bilberry-bush- 
es, grow in the treacherous mould. But the moist- 
ure beneath gnaws constantly at their roots, so that 
they die off, whilst the herb above clings pertina- 
ciously to life, and sends out ever new shoots — a 
faint, false resemblance of life, like tlie turf on the 
moor itself, in its restless, unstal)le suspension 
above the d^rk-brown water beneath. 

This turf-cover, consisting of countless partly 
decayed plants, and their closely interwoven 
roots, is our peat ; those vegetable masses that 
have accumulated at the bottom of the moor are 
bog-earth, and below them, as the oldest layer 
of all, lies the so-called black peat. . . . Dark 
and dismal the green turf stretches far away, 
as far as eye can reach. It knows neither spring 
nor summer. Below is the dark, unfathomed 
abyss. Here and there fierce gusts of wind, or 
strange powers from below, have torn the gloomy 
shroud asunder, and the dark, black waters stare 
at you. . . . Even the bright sun of heaven can- 
not light up the haunted mirror — its golden face 
looks pale and leaden. No fish swims in the in- 
hospitable water ; no boat passes swiftly from 
shore to shore. Whatever has life and dreads 
death, flees the treacherous moor. Woe to the un- 
fortunate man who misses the narrow path ! A 
single step amiss, and he sinks into the gulf ; the 
green turf closes over him, and drowns the gurg- 
ling of the waters and the anxious cry of the 

Far, far down in the depths of the moor there 
Hes many a secret of olden times. Below the 
grim, ghastly surface, below the waters, below 
the black remnants of countless plants, lie the sad 
memorials of ages unknown to the history of man. 


Huge trees stand upright, and their gigantic roots 
rest upon the crowns of still older forest giants ! 
In the inverted oaks of Marten Moor, in Switzer- 
land, many see the famous oak woods that Charle- 
magne caused to be cut down, now more than a 
thousand years ago. For centuries the moors 
have hid in their silent bosom the gigantic works 
of ancient Rome ; and posterity has gazed with 
awe and wonder at the masterly roads and mass- 
ive bridges, like those built of perishable wood by 
Germanicus, when he passed from Holland into 
the valley of the Weser. Far, in the deep, lie 
buried the stone hatchets and flint arrow-heads of 
Frisians and Cheruski, by the side of the copper 
kettle and iron helmet of the Roman soldier. A 
Pluvnieian skiff was found of late, and alongside 
of it a boat laden with bricks. The skeletons of 
antediluvian animals rest there peaceably by the 
corj^ses of ancient races with sandals on their feet 
and the skins of animals around their naked 
bodies. Hundi-eds of brave English horsemen, 
who sought an honorable death in the battle of 
Solway. were swallowed up, horse and men, by 
the insatiable moor. . . . 

Even in our day moors grasp with their death- 
hand at living nature around them. Here and 
there a lofty tree still rises from the dismal depth ; 
in mountain valleys even groves and forests some- . 
times break the sad monotony. But in the un- 
equal struggle the moor is sure to win the battle. 
Like foul disease, the hungry moor-water gnaws 
at the roots of noble trees. It softens the ground, 
it changes it into morass, and the proud giants of 
the forest fall one by one before the dark invisible 
foe beneath them. They resist long and bravely ; 
but their roots are drowned with the abominable 
liquid ; their hold is loosened, their leaves turn 
yellow and crisp ; the wintry storm comes in fury, 
and the noble tree sinks powerless into the grave 
at its feet. The struggle may be marked, even 
now, in all its stages. Thus, in the famous Black 
Forest of Germany, there rise on many a breezy 
hill glorious old fir trees, and graceful, silvery 


birches. Only a few yards beyond, however, the 
eye meets with but soiTy, stunted dwarfs, trees 
crii)pled before they reached their height, old be- 
fore their time, and weak already in the days of 
their youth. Their crowns are withered, their 
branches hung with wierd, weeping mosses. 
Then the trees become still fewer and smaller ; 
low, deformed trunks with twisted branches, 
alone survive. At last these also disapi)ear, and 
the dead quiet of the moor, with its humble heath, 
broken only here and there by a dying bush, or a 
lowly hillock, reigns alone and triumphant. — 
Leaves from the Book of Nature. 

De VERE, Thomas Aubrey, an Irish poet 
and political writer, third son of Sir Aubrey 
De Vere, born in 1814. He was educated at 
Trinity College, Dublin. His poetical works 
are The Waldenses (1842), The Search after 
Proseiyine, and Recollections of Greece and 
Other Poems (184.3), Poems, Miscellaneous and 
Sacred (18.53), Maij Carols (1857 and 1881), 
The Sisters, Innisfail, and other Poems (1861). 
Irish Odes, and Other Poems (1869), The Ltv 
genids of St. Patrick (1872), Alexander the 
Great, a Dramatic Poem (1874), St. Thomas 
of Canterbury, a. Dramatic Poem (1876), Le- 
gends of the Saxon Saints (1879), and The 
Foray of Queen Meane, and Other Legends of 
Ireland's Heroic Age (1882). His prose works 
are English Misrule and Irish Misdeeds (1848), 
Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey 
(1850). Ireland^s Church Property and the 
right Use of it. Pleas for Secidarization, and 
The Church Estahlishnient of Ireland (1867), 
The Church Settlement of Ireland, or Hiber- 
nia Pacanda (1868), and Constitutional and 
Unconst itufional Political Action (1881). In 
1878 he edited Proteus and Amadeus, a cor- 
respondence on religious and philosophical 



Up to lonelier, narrower valleys 
Winds an intricate ravine 

Whence the latest snow-blast sallies 
Through black firs scarce seen. 

I hear through clouds the hunters hollo — 

I hear, but scarcely dare to follow 

'Mid chaotic rocks and woods, 

Such as in her lyric moods 

Nature, like a Bacchante, flings 

From half-shaped imaginings. 

There lie two prostrate trunks entangled 

Like intertwisted dragons strangled : 

Yon glacier seems a prophet's robes 
' While broken sceptres, thrones, and globes 

Are strewn, as left by rival States 

Of elemental Potentates, 

Pale floats the mist, a wizard's shroud : 

There looms the broad crag from the cloud : — 
A thunder-graven Sphinx's head, half blind. 
Gazing on far lands tlu-ough the freezing wind. . . 

Mount higher, mount higher ! 

With rock-girdled gyre 
. Behind each gray ridge 

And pine-feathered ledge 
A vale is suspended; mount higher, mount higher I 

From rock to rock leaping 

The wild goats, they bound ; 
The resinous odors 
Are wafted around ; 
The clouds disentangled, 
With blue gaps are spangled ; 
Green isles of the valley with sunshine are crowned. 

The birches new-budded 

Make pink the green copse ; 
From briar and hazel 
The golden rain drops ; 
As he climbs, the boughs shaking. 
Nest-seeking, branch-breaking, 
Beneath the white ash-boughs the shepherd-boy 


How happy that shepherd ! 

How happy the lass ! 
How freshly beside them 
The pure zephyrs pass ! 
Sing, sing ! From the soil 
Springs bubble and boil, 
And sun-smitten torrents fall soft on the grass. . . 

Mount higher, mount higher, 
To the cloudland nigher ; 

To the regions we climb 

Of our long-buried prime — 
In the skies it awaits us — Up higher up liigher I 

Loud Hymn and clear Paean 

From caverns are rolled : 
Far below is Summer — 
We liave slipped from her fold ; 
We have passed, like a breath, 
To new life without death — 
The Spring and our Childhood all round we behold. 

What are toils to men who scorn them ? 
Peril what to men who dare? 

Chains to hands that once have torn them 
Thenceforth are chains of air ! 
The winds above the snow-plains fleet — 
Like them I race with winged feet ; 
My bonds are dropped ; my spirit thrills, 
A freeman of the Eternal Hills ! 
Each cloud by turns I make my tent ; 
I run before the radiance sent 
From every mountain's silver mail 
Across dark gulfs from vale to vale : 
The curdling mist in smooth career, 

A lovely phantom fleeting by. 
As silent sails through yon pale mere 

That shrines its own blue sky. . . , 

Lo like the foam of wintry ocean. 
The clouds beneath my feet are curled ; 

Dividing now with solemn motion 
They give me back the world. 

No veil I fear, no visual bond 

In this aerial diamond : 


My head o'er crystal bastions bent, 

'Twixt star-crowned spire and battlement 

I see the river of green ice, 

From precipice to precipice, 

Wind earthward slow, with blighting breath 

Blackening the vides below like death. 

Far, far beneath in sealike reach. 

Receding to the horizon's rim, 
I see the woods of pine and beech, 

By their own breath made dim : 
I see tlie land which heroes trod ; 

I see the land where Virtue chose 
To live alone, and live to God ; 

The land slie gave to those 
Who know that on the hearth alone 
True Freedom rears lier fort and throne. 

Lift up, not only hand and eye, 
Life up, O Man, thy heart on high : 
Or downward gaze once more ; and see 
How spiritual dust can be ! 
Then far into the Future dive. 
And ask if there indeed survive, 
Wlien fade the worlds, no primal shapes 
Of disembodied hills and capes, 
Types meet to shadow Godhead forth ; 
Dread antetypes of shapes on earth ? 
O Earth ! thou shalt not wholly die, 

Of some " new Earth " the chrysalis 
Predestined from Eternity, 

Nor seldom seen through this ; 
On whicli, in glory gazing, -we 
Perchance shall oft remember thee. 
And trace through it thine ancient frame 
Distinct, like flame espied through flame, 
Or like our earliest friends, above. 
Not lost, though merged in heavenlier love- 
How changed, yet still the same ! . . . 

The sun is set — but upwards without end 
Two uiighty beams, diverging. 
Like hands in benediction raised, extend , 
From the great deep a crnnsou mist is surging . . . 
Strange gleams, each moment ten times bright. 
Shoot round, transfiguring as they smite 


All spaces of the empyreal height- 
Deep gleams, high Words which God to man 
doth speak, 

From peak to solemn peak, in order driven, 
They speed. — A loftier vision dost thou seek ? 

Rise then — to Heaven ! 


Count each affliction, whether light or grave, 
God's messenger sent down to thee ; do thou 
With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ; 

And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave 

Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; 
Then lay before him all thou hast : Allow- 
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow. 

Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave 
Of mortal tumult to obliterate 

The soul's marmoreal calmness : Grief should be, 
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate. 

Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ; 
Strong to consume small troubles ; to command 
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts last- 
ing to the end. 


It stands a grove of cedars vast and green, 

Cathedral- wise disposed, with nave and choir, 
And cross-shaped transept lofty and serene ; 

And altar decked in festival attire 

With flowers like urns of white and crimson fire ; 
And chancel girt with vine-trailed laurel screen ; 
And aisles high arched with cypresses between ; 

Retreats of mournful love, and vain desire. 
Within the porch a silver fount is breathing 

Its pure, cold dews upon the summer air : 

Round it are blooming herbs, and flowers, the 
Of all the angels of the Seasons, wreathing 

Successively theii- unbought garniture 

Round the low graves of the beloved poor, 
But when the winds of night begin to move 

Alorg the murmuring roofs, deep music roUs 


Through all the vaults of this Cathedral grove ; 

A midnight service for departed souls. 
Piercing the fan-like branches stretched above 

Each chapel, oratory, shrine, and stall ; 

Then a pale moonshine falls or seems to fall 
On those cold giave-stones — altars reared by love 

For a betrothal never to be ended ; 
And on the slender plants above them swinging ; 

And on the dewy lamps from these suspended ; 
And sometimes on dark forms in anguish chnging, 

As if their bosoms to the senseless mould 

Some vital warmth would add— or borrow of its 


BlessM is he who hath not trod the ways 
Of secular delights, nor learned the lore 
Which loftier minds are studious to abhor : 

Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise 

That penshes, the rapture that betrays ; 
Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war 
His youth ; and found — a schoolboy at four- 
score ! — 

How fatal are those victories that raise 
Their iron trophies to a temple's height 

On trampled Justice ; who desires not bliss, 
But peace ; and yet, when summoned to the 

Combats as one who combats in the sight 

Of God and of His angels : seeking this 
Alone — how best to glorify the right. 

DEWEY, Orville, an American clergy- 
man, born at Sheffield, Mass., in 1794. He 
graduated at Williams College in 1814, and 
studied theology at Andover. Having em- 
braced Unitarian views, he became an assist- 
ant to Dr. Channing in Boston ; was subse- 
quently pastor of a Unitarian church in New 
Bedford, and in 1835 was called to the pastor- 
ate of the Church of the Messiah in New 
York. Protracted ill health compelled him 
to resign this position in 1848, and retire to 


his farm in his native town. He made sev- 
eral visits to Europe ; the first, beginning in 
1833, lasted for two years. Of this he pub- 
lished an 'account under the title The Old 
World and the New (2 vols., 1836). Subse- 
quent to his retirement from the pastorate 
of the Church of the Messiah, he occupied pul- 
pits in Albany and Washington ; and for four 
years (1858-1862) he was pastor of The "New 
South " Unitarian Church, in Boston. Besides 
numerous separate sermons and discourses, 
he has published several volumes of Sermons 
entitled respectively Discourses on Human 
Nature, on Human Life, on Commerce and 
Business, on The Nature of Religion, and on 
The Unitarian Belief. In 1859 he delivered 
in Boston, a series of "Lowell Lectures," 
which were published under the title, Prob- 
lem of Human Life and Destiny. 


The law is that of pain : of pain, not usually 
severe nor perpetual, but general, moderate, occa- 
sional. And the main question is : Is it useful? 
Now, in general, we find no diflSculty in answer- 
ing this question in the affirmative. Pain is a 
sentinel that warns us of danger. And therefore 
it stands upon the outposts of this citadel, the 
body ; for pain is keenest, the surgeon's knife is 
felt keenest, on the sinrface. Now, be it granted 
that pain does us some harm ; but it saves us from 
worse harm. If cold did not pain us, it might 
freeze us to death. If disease did not pain us, we 
might die before we knew that we were sick. If 
contacts, of all sorts, with sinrounding objects — 
the woodman's axe, the carpenter's saw, the 
farmer's harrow — did not hurt us, they might cut 
and tear us all to pieces. Think of it. A knife, 
held by a careless hand, approaches us ; it touches 
the skin. We start back. Why ? Because there 
is pain. But for this it might have entered the 
body, and cut some vital organ. An old Greek 
verse says, " The gods sell us the blessings they 


bestow,"' Tliese are the best terms for tis. They 
make us careful and prudent. Unconditional 
giving might lead to reckless squandering. Pain, 
then, is a teacher of prudence and self-care. Nay, 
and if happiness alone were considered, it might 
be argued that an occasional bitter drop gives a 
zest to the cup of enjoyment ; as hunger does to 
the feast, or sharp cold to the winter's fire. 

But in moral relations, the argument is still 
stronger. Here is a human soul clothed Avith a 
bodj-, to be trained to virtue, to self-command, to 
spiritual strength and nobleness. Would perpetual 
ease and pleasure, a perpetual luxury of sensation, 
best do that ? We know that it would not. Every 
wise and thoughtful man, at least, knows that 
some pain, some sickness, some rebuke of the 
senses, is good for him. Such a man often feels, 
in long-continued states of ease and comfort, that 
it is time that something should come to try, to 
discipline, to inure and ennoble his nature. He 
is afraid of uninteiTupted enjoyment. Pain, 
patiently and nobly endured, peculiarly strength- 
ens and spiritualizes the soul. Heinrich Heine 
says, "Only the man who has known bodily 
suiferings, is truly a man." The loftiest states of 
mind, and, compared with mere sensual indul- 
.gence, the happiest, are those of courageous en- 
durance ; and the martyr is often happier than 
the voluptuar3% . . . 

But now, it maj- be asked, Could not the same 
end have been gained, the same nobleness, the 
same constancy have been achieved without pain? 
Which is, I think, as if one should ask, whether 
the wood could not have been cut into shape with- 
out the axe, or the marble without the chisel, or 
the gold purified \vithout the furnace. But let us 
answer : and we say. Not in any way that we can 
conceive of. First, it may have been absolutely 
inevitable in the nature of things, that a frame 
sensitive to pleasure shovdd be liable to pain. This 
may be the explanation of that long-continued 
and severe pain, which presents the hardest prob- 
lem in our physical life. With such causes fore- 
going, such a train of influences, mental, moral, 


and physical, as produced this terrible suffering, 
it may have been impossible without a miracle, to 
prevent it. Ordinarily, indeed, such pain is not 
long continued. It destrojs life, or life destroys 
it. "If severe, brief — if long, light" — is the old 
adage ; and it is true. But if it fail, and the ter- 
rible case of protracted anguish is before us, we 
may be obliged to leave it under some great lavs^ 
of the human constitution, which makes preven- 
tion impossible. I may be told that such pain 
does no good ; that it breaks down mind and body 
together ; and therefore that it cannot, in anyway 
be useful. But we do not know that. In the 
great cycle of eternity, all may come right. How 
much happier the sufferer may be forever for this 
present pain, we know not. All experience, all 
known analogies, favor the idea of that immense 
remuneration. — Lowell Lectures. 


By the unreflecting mass of men, deatli is re- 
garded simply as the greatest of evils. They sur- 
vey its ravages with dread and horror. They see 
no beneficient agencies in the appointment ; they 
scarcely see it as an appointment at all. They be- 
hold its approach to their own dwelling, not in 
the spirit of calm philosophy or resignation, but 
simply with a desire to resist its entrance. To 
" deliver those who all their lifetime are in bond- 
age through fear of death,"' was one express de- 
sign of Christianity : but only in a few minds has 
this design been fulfiUed. Death is still regarded, 
not as an ordinance, but as a catastrophe. It is 
like the eai'thquake to the material world ; that 
which whelms all. It is the one calamity ; that 
which strikes a deeper shaft into the world than 
any other. It is the fixed doom which makes all 
other calamity light and phenomenal. The world 
trembles at it, grows pale before it, as it trembles 
and grows pale before nothing else. Nay, and 
with reflecting persons, I think, the feeling that 
they must die is usually the feeling of some stern 
necessity. " Now let me depart : it is good for 
me to go hence," is a language sometimes heard ; 


but it is rare. That dark veil at the view, there 
forever suspended, casts a shade over the whole of 

Can it have been meant, is it reasonable, that an 
event so necessary, so universal, and appointed 
doubtless in wisdom, should be thus regarded? 
For death, it is evident, in fact, if not in form, is a 
part of the original world-plan. I know that it is 
commonly looked upon as the consequence of sin 
— the consequence of the fall. But observe the 
language in which this doom, supposed to have 
been consequent upon the fall of man. is pro- 
nounced. It is in the third chapter of Genesis. It 
is a doom, in general, of toil and pain and sorrow ; 
and when death is mentioned, it is in these terms : 
" In the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat bread till 
thou return unto the ground ; for out of it wast 
thou taken : for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt 
thou return." " Till thou return unto the ground." 
This, then, is represented as a part of the already 
appointed ordination of nature. '• i^or out of it 
wast thou taken." The reason assigned has no 
reference to the fall, but to the constitution of hu- 
man nature. " For dust thou art, and unto dust 
shalt thou return." That is, thou shalt die, for 
thou art naturally mortal ; earth has part in thee, 
and shall reclaim her own. ... 

All this is but saying that each generation must 
die. In this sense, therefore, death was a part of 
the original plan ; the departure from this world, 
that is to say, was a part of it : even as that most 
ancient Scripture record of it implies. But still, 
doubtless, this departure may have assumed a par- 
ticular character in consequence of sin. It may 
be, I repeat, a death dark and fearful — distressful 
both to body and mind. Vice, for instance, brings 
on disease ; and disease produces death ; and this 
death, thus premature and agonizing, is the fruit 
of sin. And doubtless in many ways, and in every 
way. departure from this world must be a more af- 
flictive event, both to the sufferer and to survivors, 
in consequence of our moral darkness, wander- 
ings, and weakness. Nevertheless — for I must in- 
sist upon this point, the departure, in some way, is 


inevitable. The over-crowded dwelling must dis- 
miss some of its inmates : the over-populous na- 
tion must send out colonies. Thus must the world 
so to speal'. colonize its inhabitants, translate 
them to another country. Else death would come 
amidst horrors now unknown ; amidst the ago- 
nies of famine and the suffocation of fullness. . . 

Yet not with terror only, but with tenderness 
does death touch the human heart — touches it 
with a gracious sympathy and sorrow. One may 
know the house where death has set his mark, 
long after the time. Traces are left in its affec- 
tions that are never worn out. Traces are left in 
viemoriam, in poetry, in all human sentiment. 
Death is not the sundering, but the consecration of 
friendship. It strengthens that holy bond. It 
makes the departed dearer. It gives new power 
and sanctity to their example. It invests their vir • 
tues with the radiance of angel beauty. It canon- 
izes them as patron saints and guardian angels 
of the household. 

Nor could it fulfill its high mission if men de- 
parted from the world in families, in tribes, in 
generations. Then indeed were we spared the 
sorrows of bei'eavement ; but at the expense of 
much that is most sacred in life. If families were 
dismissed from life together, they would inevita- 
bly become selfish ; contracting their thoughts 
and affections within those domestic spheres in 
which all their destinies were bound up. If genera- 
tions were mowed down at once, like the ripened 
harvests, then had there been no history of public 
deeds, nor record of private worth. The invisible 
presence of virtue that now pervades and hallows 
the earth, that consecrates our dwellings, and 
makes them far more than the abodes of life, 
would be withdrawn from the fellowship of men ; 
and the signal lights of heroic example that are 
now shining through the ages, would all go out 
in utter darkness. . . . 

Nay, in another respect the grandeur of death 
imparts a reflected dignity to life. God puts 
honor on the being to whom he says " Thou shalt 


die ! " — to whom he does not veil the event as he 
does to animal natures, but unfolds tlie clear 
prospect. He to whom the grandest achievement 
of courage and heroism should be proposed, could 
not be a mean creature. But every man is to 
meet the grandeur of death. In these mortal 
lists he stands — aye, the youth, the child, the 
frailest spirit that ever was clothed with the habili- 
ments of mortality ; and he knows that he is to 
meet a crisis more sublime and mysterious than 
any otlier that ever cliallenged mortal courage. 
The meanest man lives with that prospect before 
him. More than that which makes hei'oism sub- 
lime, it is his to encounter. 

Yes, and in the bosom of death are powers 
greater than itself. I have seen them. I have 
seen them triumph, when death was nearest and 
mightiest ; and I believe in them — I believe in 
those unborn powers of life and immortality, more 
than I believe in death. They will beai' me up 
more than death will weigh me down. I live : 
and this living conscious being which I am to-day, 
is a greater wonder to me than it is that I should 
go on and on. How I came to be astonishes me 
far more than how I should co)itiaue to be. And 
if I am to conthaue, if I am to live forever, I 
have a realm fitted for such life. Eternity of 
being must have infinitude of space for its range. 
I would visit other worlds ; and especially does 
the desire grow intense as the boundless splendors 
of the starry heavens are unfolded wider and 
wider. But I cannot go to them— I cannot skirt 
the coasts of Sirius and the Pleiades with this 
body. Then — sometime — in God's good time — 
let it drop. Let my spirit wander free. Let this 
body drop ; as when one leaves the vehicle that 
had borne him on a journey — to ascend some lofty 
mountain — to lift his gaze to wider heavens and a 
vaster horizon. So let my spirit wander free, and 
far. Let it wander through the realms of infinite 
good ; its range as unconfined as its nature ; its 
faith, the faith of Christ ; its hope, a hope full of 
immortality. — Lowell Lectures. 

ABBY M. DIAZ. 315 

DIAZ, Abby (Morton), an American au- 
thor, born at Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 
1821. She was educated at the Bridgewater 
Normal School. Among her numerous stories 
for the young are The King^s Lily and Rose- 
bud, the William Henry Letters, William 
Henry and his Friends, Polly Cologne, The 
School-master'' s Trunk, The Jimmyjohns, and 
Chronicles of the Stimpcett Family. 


Marm Cobb had a full round face, and her 
double cap-ruffle made it look fuller and rounder. 
Above that double-ruffle was a wide black ribbon, 
made up into a bow in front, and above the ribbon 
was the cap-crown. . . . 

The school-marm sat with her feet on a block, or 
sometimes on a foot-stove, and seldom rose from 
her chair. A very long stick, which was always 
at hand, saved her the trouble of rising. I know 
not from what kind of a tree that stick was cut, 
but it had the farthest reach and the most tingle 
in its end of any stick I ever felt. Every after- 
noon just before the time for closing school, 
marm would lift the great Bible into her lap, and, 
w^ith her thimble, give three raps on its cover. At 
that signal, we gathered around her in a semi- 
circle, and. folding our hands, stood while she read 
a chapter aloud. She read in a kind of sing-song 
way, now and then pausing to say, in a deep, hol- 
low tone of voice, "SelahV .... 

When the other scholars were gone, those of us 
w^ho had to " stay " after school, helped to carry 
out the crickets and pile them up in the back 
room. Then we looked on while marm set her 
little three-legged table, and made herself a cup 
of tea. . . . Sometimes, while waiting for the 
teakettle to boil, she would drop her school-marm 
manners, and tell us about the blue pictures on 
the tiles around the fireplace. Every Saturday 
noon, she gave the floor a thorough sweeping, 
scattered clean sand over it, and by drawing her 
broom over the sand this way aHd that, made 


what was called the "herring-bone pattern." 
Then she would put on her great black silk bon- 
net, and her red broadcloth cloak, take an um- 
brella for a cane, and walk off with a slow, aieas- 
ured tread, to eat her Saturday dinner with her 
son. — Chronicles of the Stiinpcett Family. 

DIBDIN, Charles, an English dramatist 
and writer of songs, born in 1745, died in 1814. 
He was destined for the Church ; but mani- 
festing a talent for music, he went to London 
at the age of sixteen, and f or a while'supported 
himself by composing ballads for music-deal- 
ers and tuning pianos. He was engaged in sev- 
eral unsuccessful theatrical enterprises until, 
at the age of forty-five, he instituted a species 
of musical entertainment, which he called 
The JVhim of the Moment, in which he was 
the sole author, composer, and performer. 
This proved successful, and he kept up this 
and similar entertainments until 1805, when 
he retired from professional life, having re- 
ceived a Government pension of £200. But 
his improvidence kept him in continual pov- 
erty. He wrote nearly fifty dramatic pieces, 
none of which attained a permanent success. 
His place in literature rests mainly upon his 
sea-songs, the number of which exceeds 1,000. 
The best-known of these are Poor Jack, and 
Tom Bowling, written upon the death of his 
brother, Thomas Dibdin, a sea-captain. 


Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
A tight- water boat and good sea-room give me, 

And it ain't to a little I '11 strike. 
Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack 
smooth should smite 
And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the deck, stow the yards, and ■bouse every- 
thing tight, 


And under reef foresail we '11 scud : 
Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft, 

To be taken for trifles aback ; 
For they say-there 's a Providence sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day 

About souls, heaven, mercy and such ; 
And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; 

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ; 
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d 'ye see, 

Without orders that come down below ; 
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : [oft 

For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so 

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

I said to our Poll (for d 'ye see she would cry 

When last we weighed anchor for sea), 
What argufies snivelling and piping your eye ? 

Why, what a young fool you must be ! 
Can't you see the world 's wide, and there 's room 
for us all, 

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And so if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll, 

Why, you never will hear of me more. 
What then ? all 's a hazard : come, don't be so soft^ 

Perhaps I may, laughing, come back ; 
For, d 'ye see ? there 's a cherub sits smiling aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 
D 'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of the ship, [flinch. 

And with her brave the world, without oif ering to 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip. [ends, 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and 

Naught's a trouble from duty that springs ; 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino 's my 

And as for my life, 'tis the King's. 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 

As for griet to be taken aback ; 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look out a good berth for poor Jack. 



Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew : 
No more he '11 hear the tempest howling, 

For Death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty, 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful below he did his duty, 

But now he 's gone aloft. 

Tom never from liis word departed, 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair : 
And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly ; 

Ah, manj' 's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 

When He, who all commands. 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches. 

In vain Tom's life has doffed : 
For thougli his body 's under hatches. 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdin, Jr., (died in 1833) was, 
like his father, an actor and dramatist. — 
Thomas Dibdin, another son of Charles (born 
in 1771, died in 1841), wrote numerous songs 
and dramatic pieces ; he also wrote a Metrical 
History of England (1813), and two vohimes 
of Reminiscences (1828) ; at the time of his 
death he was engaged in compiling an edition 
of the sea-songs of his father, for performing 
this work he received a small allowance from 
the British Lords of the Admiralty.— Thomas 
Frognall Dibdin, nephew- of Charles, and son 
of "Toin Bow-ling," was born in Calcutta in 
1776, and died in 1847. He was educated at 
Oxford, studied laAv, but afterwards entered 


the Church, received the degree of Doctor of 
Divinity, and became Rector of St. Mary's, 
Bryanstone Square, London. He was tiie 
author of several vokimes of Travels, at home 
and in France and Germany ; and of numer- 
ous learned bibliographical and antiquarian 
works. The most important of these are 
Bihliotheca Spencer iana, an account of the 
rare books collected by Earl Spencer (7 vols.) ; 
Typographical Antiquities of Grreat Britain 
(4 vols.) ; and Bibliographical Decameron (3 
vols.). He also put forth Reminiscences of a 
Literary Life (3 vols., 1836). 

DICK. Thomas, a Scottish author, born in 
1775, died in 1857. He was educated at the 
University of Edinburgh, for the ministry of 
the Secession church of Scotland, and was 
ordained in 1803. After brief pastoral serv- 
ice, he became a teacher in Perth. His 
book. The Christian Philosopher, published 
in 1824, attained great popularity, and en- 
abled him to give up teaching and devote 
himself to literary and scientific studies. He 
published several popular works; among 
tbem, The Philosophy of Religion (1825), The 
Philosophy of a Future State (1828), The Im- 
provement of Society by a Diffusion of Knowl- 
edge (1833), Celestial Scenery (1837) , Tfie Side- 
real Heavens (1840), The Practical Astrono- 
mer (1845), and Telescope and Microscope 

Of this universe we can only form an approxi- 
mate idea by comparing one small portion of it 
with another, and by allowing the mind to dwell 
for a considerable time on every scene we con- 
template. We must first endeavor to acquire a 
compreliensive conception of the magnitude of 
the globe on which we dwell, and the numerous 
diversity of objects it contains ; we must next 


stretch our view to some of the planetary globes, 
which are a thousand times greater in magnitude : 
and to such an orb as the sun, which tills a space 
thirteen hundred thousand times more expansive. 
Ranging through the whole of the planetary sys- 
tem, we must fix our attention upon every par- 
ticular scene and object, imagine ourselves trav- 
ersing the hills and plains, and immense regions 
of Jupiter, and surveying the expansive rings 
of Saturn in all their vast dimensions and rapid 
motions, till we have obtained the most ample 
idea which the mind can possibly grasp of the ex- 
tent and grandeur of the planetary system. Leav- 
ing this vast system, and proceeding through 
boundless space till all its planets haA-e entirely 
disappeared, and its sun has dwindled to the size 
of a small twinkling star, we must next survey 
the thousand stars that deck the visible fii'ma- 
ment, every one of which must be considered as a 
sun, accompanied with a system of planets no less 
spacious and august than ours. Continuing our 
course through dejaths of space immeasurable by 
human art, we must penetrate into the centre of 
the Milky Way, where we are surrounded by suns, 
not only in thousands, but in millions. In a 
scene like this, the boldest imagination is over- 
powered and bewildered amid the number and 
magnitude, and feels utterly incompetent to grasp 
the ten thousandth part of the overwhelming idea 
presented before it. Winging our flight from the 
Milky Way, over unknown and immeasurable re- 
gions — regions where infinitude appears opening 
upon us in awful grandeur — we approach some of 
those immense starry clusters called Nebula', 
every one of which may be considered as another 
milky way, with its ten thousands and millions of 
suns. . . . 

Soaring beyond all these objects, we behold, as 
it were, a new universe in the immense magni- 
tude of the planetary and other nebulae, where 
separate stars have never been perceived , and, 
besides all these, there may be thousands, and 
ten thousands and millions, of opaque globes of 
prodigious size, existing throughout every region 


of the universe, and even in that portion of it 
which is within the limit of our inspection, the 
faintness of whose Hght prevents it froiu ever 
reaching our eves. But, far heyond all such ob- 
jects as those we have been contemplating, a 
boundless region exists, of which no human eye 
has yet caught a glimpse, and which no finite in- 
telligence has ever explored. What scenes of 
power, of goodness, of grandeur and magnificence 
may be displayed within this unapproachable and 
infinite expanse, neither men nor angels can de- 
scribe, nor form the most rude conception. But 
we may rest assured that it is not an empty void, 
but displays the attributes of the Deity in a man- 
ner no less admirable and glorious, and perhaps 
much more so, than all the scenes of creation 
within the range of our vision. — The Sidereal 

DICKENS, Charles, an English novelist, 
born February 7, 1812, died June 9, 1870. He 
was the son of a clerk in the Navy Pay Office, 
a well-meaning but unpractical man, who 
could not adjust his means to his necessities, 
and was always in difficulties. His mother, a 
woman of some accomplishments, endeavored 
to assist in the maintenance of the family, by 
opening a school for young ladies, but she 
was unsuccessful in obtaining pupils. Mr. 
Dickens was at length confined in the Marsh- 
alsea prison and his family took up their res- 
idence in Camden Town, then a poverty-strick- 
en suburb of London. When Charles was 
nine years old, he was placed in a blacking 
warehouse where he earned six shillings a 
week. In this neglected, uncongenial, irksome 
way of earning a scanty living he continued 
for two years. He had already made ac- 
quaintance with Tom Jones, Roderick Ran- 
dom and other heroes of Fielding and Smol- 
lett; with the Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quix- 
ote, and Robinson Crusoe, wliose lives and ad- 


ventures he had found among a small collection 
of books owned by his father. He beguiled 
many an hour by fancying himself one or 
another of the characters about whom he had 
read. Among his companions in the ware- 
house lie was famous as a story-teller, and he 
wrote a tragedy. Misiiar, the Sultan of India, 
founded on one of the Tales of the Genii. 
This life which to another boy might have 
been ruinous, was a part of his apprentice- 
ship to fame. His uncommon powers of ob- 
servation took note of everything that came 
before them. Many of the immortal charac- 
ters in his novels are drawn from the men 
and women with whom he came in contact in 
these gloomy days. A quarrel between the 
elder Dickens and one of the partners in the 
blacking business released the boy from his 
slaver}'. A small legacy somewhat improved 
the condition of the family, and Charles was 
sent to school ; but at the age of fifteen he 
was engaged as office-boy to an attorney in 
Gray's Inn. His father having become a re- 
porter for the Morning Chronicle, the son de- 
termined to follow the same calling, and after 
mastering the difficulties of shorthand, ob- 
tained employment first in Doctors' Com- 
mons, and after two years of practice there, in 
the parliamentary gallery, as reporter for The 
True Sun. He was then nineteen years of 
age. At twenty-three, he was engaged by the 
Morn ing Ch ran icle. 

His fiist published sketch, Mrs. Joseph Por- 
ter over the Way, appeared in the OM Month- 
ly Magazine for January, 1834. This was 
succeeded by other sketches, with the signa- 
ture of "Boz," the shortened form of a name 
given in sport to a younger brother, in allu- 
sion to the son of the Vicar of Wakefield : first 
' ' Moses, " it became * ' Boses. " and then ' • Boz. " 
The sketches were well received, but when at 


the end of the year, the young author de- 
manded payment for similar articles, it was 
refused. The editor of the Chronicle engaged 
him to continue them in that paper, where 
they attracted much attention. In 1836 they 
were published collectively in two volumes 
illustrated by Cruikshank. 

About this time Chapman and Hall propos- 
ed to Dickens a work of fiction in monthly 
numbers, to be illustrated by Seymour, a 
comic artist. In agreement with this propos- 
al Dickens began The Posthumous Papers of 
the Pickii'ick Clnb. On the death of Sey- 
moui", before the publication of the second 
number, Hablot Knight Browne, under the 
pseudonym of '"Phiz," took his place. The 
first numbers were not successful, but the ap- 
pearance of Sam Weller gained many read- 
ers, and the author was soon the most popu- 
lar writer of the day. Before the completion 
of PickicicJc, Oliver Ticist was begun in Bent- 
ley's Magazine. Pickwick appeared in book 
form in 1837, Oliver Tivist in 1838, and Nich- 
olas Nickleby in 1839. Under the general title 
of Master Humphreys Clock, The Old Curios- 
ity Shop and Barnaby Rudge were published 
in monthly numbers in 1840-41. In 1842 
Dickens visited America, sailing for Boston 
in January, and returning to England in 
June. On his return he published American 
Notes for General Circidation (1842), and Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit (1843). 

The Christmas Carol (1843), was the first of 
his popular holiday stories. The others are 
TJie Chimes {ISU)^ The Cricket on the Hearth 
(1845). TJie Battle of Life (1846), The Haunted 
Man (1848), Dr. Marigold's Prescription (1865), 
Mughy Junction (1866), and No Thoroughfare 
(1867), the last of which was written in con- 
junction with Wilkie Collins. Pictures from 
Italy first appeared in The Daily News, of 


which Dickens was editor during four months 
of the year 1846. Next came Donibey and 
Son (1847-8) and David Copperfield (1849-50). 
Dickens now established the weekly period- 
ical, Household Words, in which his Child's 
History of England (1852) and Hard Times 
(1854) were published. Bleak House (1852-3) 
and Little Dorrit (1856-7) appeared serially. 
In consequence of a dispute with the pub- 
lishers, Household Words was discontinued 
in 1859; and Dickens established another 
weekly publication All the Year Round, in 
which he published A Tale of Tico Cities 
(1860), Great Expectations- {\SQ\), and The 
Uncommercial Traveller. Our Mutual Friend 
(1864-5) was his last completed work. The 
Mystery of Edivin Drood, begun in April, 
1870. being interrupted hj his death in June 
of that year. During the last years of his 
life Dickens gave frequent readings from his 
own works, visiting the United States for 
that purpose in 1867-8, and giving his last 
reading in England in March, 1870 : 


Sam had unconsciou: 'y been a full hour and a 
half writing words in small text, smearing out 
wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in 
new ones which required going over very often to 
render them visible through the old blots, when 
he was roused by the opening of the door and the 
entrance of his parent. " Veil, Sammy," said the 
father. ''Veil, my Proosian Blue,'" responded the 
son, laying down his pen. "What's the last bul- 
letin about mother-in-law ? " 

"Mrs. Veller passed a wery good night, but is 
uncommon perwerse and impleasant this mornin'. 
Signed upon oath, S. Veller. Esquire, Senior. 
That's the last vun as was issued, Sammy," replied 
Mr. Weller, untying his shawl, 

" No better yet ? " inquired Sam. 

" All the symptoms aggerawated," replied Mr. 


Weller, shaking his head. "But wot 's that, 
you 're a-doin' of — pursuit of knowledge under 
difHculties'— eh Sammy ? " 

" I 've done now," said Sam with slight embar- 
rassment ; " I 've been a-writin'." 

"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any 
young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." 

" Wliy it 's no use a-sayin' it a'n't," replied Sam, 
" It 's a walentine." 

" A what ! " exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently 
horror-stricken by the word. 

"A walentine," replied Sam, 

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in re- 
proacliful accents, " I did n't think j'ou'd ha' done 
it. Arter the warnin' you 've had o' your father's 
wicious propensities ; arter all I 've said to you 
upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally 
seein' and bein' in the company o' your own 
mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a 
moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten 
to his dyin' day ! I did n't think you 'd ha' done 
it, Sammy, I did n't think you 'd ha' done it ! " . . . 

"Nonsense,"' said Sam. " I a'n't a-goin' to get 
married, don't fret jourself about that. Order in 
your pipe, and I'll read you the letter — there." 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for 
any corrections, and began with a very theatrical 
air : " ' Lovely ' " 

" Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. "A 
double glass o' the inwariable, my dear." 

"Very well, sir," replied the girl; who with 
great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and 

" They seem to know your ways here," observed 

"Yes," replied his father, "I've been here 
before, in my time. Go on, Sammy." 

" ' Lovely creetur,'" repeated Sam. 

"'Ta'n't in poetry, is it?" interposed his father. 

"No no," replied Sam. 

" Wery glad to liear it," said Mr. Weller. "Po- 
etry 's unnat'ral ; no man ever talked poetry 'cept 
:i beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or 
Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows ; never 


let yourself clown to talk poetry, my boy. Begin 
ag'in, Sammy." 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical so- 
lemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and 
read as follows : " ' Lovely creetur i feel myself a 
dammed * " 

"That a'n't proper,"' said Mr. "VVeller, taking 
his pipe from his mouth. 

" No ; it a'n't ' dammed," "" observed Sam, hold- 
ing the letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' 
there 's a blot there — ' I feel myself ashamed.' '" 

" Wery good,"" said Mr. Weller. " Go on."' 

" ' Feel 7iiyself a.shamed, and completely cir 

I forget what this here word is,"' said Sam, scratch- 
ing his head with the pen, in vain attempts to re- 

" \Vliy don"t you look at it, then?" inquired 
Mr. "Weller. 

"So I am a-lookin' at it," replied Sam, "but 
there "s another blot. Here "sac and a i and a d." 

" Circumwented. p"r"aps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

" No it a"n't that," said Sam ; " circumscribed ; 
that's it."' 

" That a"n't a.s good a word as circumwented, 
Sammy."" said Mr. Weller gravely. 

" Think not ? "' said Sam. 

" Nothin" like it."' replied his father. 

"But don"t you think it means more?" in- 
quired Sam. 

" Veil p'raps it is a more tenderer word," said 
Mr. Weller. after a few moments' reflection. " Go 
on, Sammy."' 

" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circum- 
scribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal 
and nothin' but it." " 

"That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the 
elder Mr. AVeller. removing his pipe to make way 
for the remark. 

"Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed 
Sam, highly flattered. 

"Wot I like in that "ere style of writin'." said 
the elder IMr. Weller. ' ' is. that there a'n't no callin* 
names in it — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that 


kind. Wot "s the good o' callin' a young 'ooman 
a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ? " 

"Ah ! what indeed?" repUed Sam. 

"You might jist us well call her a griffin, or a 
unicorn, or a King's Arms at once, which is werj^ 
well known to be a collection of fabulous ani- 
mals," added Mr. Weller. 

"Just as well," replied Sam. 

" Drive on Sammy," said Mr. Weller, 

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded 
as follows : " 'Afore I see you I thought all women 
was alike.' " 

" So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, 

"'But now,'" continued Sam, "'now I find 
what a reg'lar soft-headed, inkred"lous turnip I 
must ha' been ; for there a'n't nobody like you 
though /like you better than nothin' at all.' I 
thought it best to make that rayther strong," said 
Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, 
and Sam resumed. " ' So I take the pri vilidge of the 
day, Mary, my dear, to tell you that the first and 
only time I see you, j'our likeness was took on 
my h'art in much quicker time and brighter colors 
than ever a likeness was took by the profeel ma- 
chine, altho' it does finish a portrait and put the 
frame and glass on complete with a hook at the 
end to hang it up by and all in two minutes and a 

" I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sam- 
my," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

" No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very 
quickly to avoid contesting the point — • ' ' Except 
of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think 
over what I Ve said. — My dear Maiy I will now 
conclude.' That 's all," said Sam. 

"That's rayther a sudden pull up a'n't it, Sam- 
my ? " inquired Mr. Weller. 

"Not a bit on it," said Sam ; " she '11 wish there 
was more, and that 's the great art o' letter- writin'.'' 
— The Pickwick Club. 


Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five 


or thereabouts, of a gaunt and bony figure, and a 
resolute bearing, which if it repressed the softer 
emotions of love, and kept admirei's at a distance, 
certainly inspked a feeling akin to awe in the 
breasts of those male strangers who had the happi- 
ness to approach her. In face she bore a striking 
resemblance to her brother, Samson — so exact, 
indeed, was the likeness between them, that had 
it consorted with Miss Brass's maiden modesty and 
gentle womanhood to have assumed her brother's 
clothes in a frolic and sat down beside him, it 
would have been difficult for the oldest friend of 
the family to determine which was Samson and 
which Sally, especially as the lady carried upon 
her upper lip certain reddish demonstrations, 
which, if the imagination had been assisted by her 
attire, might have been mistaken for a beard. 
These were, however, in all probability, nothing 
more than eyelashes in a wrong place, as the eyes 
of Miss Brass, were quite free from any such 
natural impertinences. In complexion Miss Brass 
was sallow — rather a dirty sallow, so to speak — but 
this hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy 
glow wliich mantled in the extreme tip of her 
laughing nose. Her voice was exceedingly im- 
pressive — deep and rich in quality, and, once 
heard, not easily forgotten. Her usual dress was 
a green gown, in color not unlike the curtain of 
the office window, made tight to the figure, and 
terminating at the throat, where it was fastened 
behind by a peculiarly large and massive button. 
Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and plainness 
are the soul of elegance. Miss Brass wore no collar 
or kercliief except upon her head, which was in- 
variably ornamented with a brown gauze scarf, 
like the wing of the fabled vampire, and which, 
twisted into any form that happened to suggest 
itself, formed an easy and graceful head-dress. 

Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, she 
was of a strong and vigorous turn, having from 
her earliest youth devoted herself with uncommon 
ardor to the study of the law ; not wasting her 
speculations upon its eagle flights, which are rare, 
but tracing it attentively through all the slippery 


and eel-like crawlings in which it commonly pur- 
sues its way. Nor had she, like many persons of 
great intellect, confined herself to theory, or 
stopped short where practical usefulness begins ; 
inasmuch as she could engross, fair-copy, fill up 
printed forms with perfect accuracj', ami, in short, 
transact any ordinary duty of the office down to 
pouncing a skin of parchment or mending a pen. 
It is difficult to understand how, possessed of 
these combined attractions, she should remain 
Miss Brass ; but whether she had steeled her heart 
against mankind, or whether those who might 
have wooed and won her, were deterred by fears 
that, being learned in the law, she might have too 
near her fingers' ends those particular statutes 
which regulate what are familiarly tenued Actions 
for Breach, certain it is she was still in a state of 
celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her old 
stool opposite to that of her brother Samson. 
And equally certain it is, by the way, that be- 
tween these two stools a gi'eat many people had 
come to the ground. — Old Curiosity Shop. 


A thin-faced, spare-figured man of middle age 
and stature, dressed in a dusty drabbish-colored 
suit, such as I nerver saw before. He was perfect- 
ly quiet during the first part of the journey ; indeed 
I don 't remember having so much as seen him 
until he was brought out by circumstances, as 
great men often are. The canal extends to the 
foot of the mountain, and there of course it stops, 
the passengers being conveyed across it by land- 
carriage, and taken on afterwards by another 
canal-boat, the counterpart of the first, which 
awaits them on the other side. There are two 
canal lines of passage-boat ; one is;called the Ex- 
press, and one — a cheaper one — the Pioneer. 
The Pioneer gets first to the mountain, and waits 
for the Express people to coiiie up, both sets of 
passengers being conveyed across it at the same 
time. We were the Ex^y^'ess company, but when 
we had crossed the mountain, and had come to 
the second boat, the proprietors took it into their 


heads to draft all the Pioneers into it likewise, so 
that we were five-and-forty at least, and the ac- 
cession of passengers was not all of that kind 
which improved the prospect of sleeping at night. 
Our people grumbled at this, as people do in such 
cases, but suffered the boat to be towed off with 
the whole freight aboard nevertheless ; and away 
we went down the canal. At home I should have 
protested lustily, but, being a foreigner here, I 
held my peace. Not so this passenger. He cleft 
a path among the people on deck — we were near- 
ly all on deck — and without addressing anybody 
whomsoever, soliloquised as follows : 

'' This may suit you, this may, but it don't suit 
me. This may be all very well Avith down-easters 
and men of Boston raising, but it won't suit my 
figure no how ; and no two ways about that ; 
and so I tell you. Now, I 'm from the brown 
forests of the Mississippi. Jam, and when the sun 
shines on me, it does shine — a little. It don't 
glimmer where I live, the sun don't. No. I am 
a brown forester, I am. I ain't a Johnny Cake. 
There are no smooth-skins where I live. We 're 
rough men there. Rather. If down-easters and 
men of Boston raising like this, I am glad of it, 
but I 'm none of that raising, nor of that breed. 
No, This Company wants a little fixing, it does. 
I am the wrong sort of a man for 'em, / am. 
They won't like me, they won't. This is piling 
of it up, a little too mountainous, this is.'' 

At the end of every one of these short sentences, 
he turned upon his heel and walked the other 
waj^- checking himself abruptly when he had 
finished another short sentence, and turning back 
again. It is impossible for me to say what terrif- 
ic meaning was hidden in the words of this brown 
forester, but I know that the other passengers 
looked on in a sort of admiring horror, and that 
presently the boat was put back to the wharf, and 
as many of the Pioneers as could be coaxed or 
bullied into going away were got I'id of. When 
we started again some of the boldest spirits on 
board made bold to say to the obvious occasion of 
this improvement in our prospects, " Much 


obliged to you, sir ; '' whereunto the brown for- 
ester — waving his hand, and still walking up and 
down as before — replied : 

' ' No, you an't. You 're none o' my raising. 
You may 'act for yourselves, you may. I have 
p'inted out the way. Down-easters and John- 
ny Cakes can follow if they please. I an't a 
Johnny Cake, I an't. I am from the brown for- 
ests of the Mississippi, I am ; "' and so on as 

He was unanimously voted one of the tables for 
his bed at night — there is a great contest for the 
tables — in consideration of his public services, and 
he had the warmest corner by the stove through- 
out the rest of the journey. But I never could 
find out that he did anything except sit there ; nor 
did I hear him speak again until, in the midst of 
the bustle and turmoil of getting the luggage 
ashore in the dark at Pittsburgh, I stumbled over 
him as he sat smoking a cigar on the cabin 
steps, and heard him muttering to himself, with a 
short laugh of defiance : " /an't a Johnny Cake, 
/ an't. I 'm from the brown forests of the Missis- 
sippi. I am ! " 

I am incUned to argue from this that he had 
never left off saying so. — American Notes. 


Whenever a young gentleman was taken in 
hand by Doctor Blimber, he might consider him- 
self sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor 
only undertook the charge of ten young gentle- 
men, but he had, always ready, a supjjly of learn- 
ing for a hundred, on the lowest estimate ; and it 
was at once the business and delight of his life to 
gorge the unhappy ten with it. 

In fact, Doctor Blimber's establishment was a 
great hot-house, in which there was a forcing ap- 
paratus incessantly at work. All the boys blew 
before their time. Mental green peas were pro- 
duced at Christmas, and intellectual asparagus all 
the j'ear round. Mathematical gooseberries (very 
sour ones too) were common at untimely seasons, 
and from mere sprouts of bushes, under Doctor 


Blimbers cultivation. Ever}' description of Greek 
and Latin A'egetable was got off the driest twigs 
of boys, under the frostiest circumstances. Nature 
was of no consequence at all. No matter what a 
young gentleman was intended to bear, Doctor 
Blimber made him bear to pattern, somehow or 

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but 
the system of forcing was attended with its usual 
disadvantages. There was not the right taste 
about the premature productions, and they didn't 
keep well. Moreover, one young gentleman, with 
a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the 
oldest of the ten, who had " gone through " every- 
thing), suddenly left off blowing one day, and re- 
mained in the establishment a mere stalk. And 
people did say that the Doctor had rather over- 
done it with young Toots, and that when he began 
to have whiskers he left off having brains. . . . 

The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of 
black, with strings at his knees, and stockings 
below them. He had a bald head, highly polished ; 
a deep voice ; and a chin so very double, that it 
was a wonder how he ever managed to shave into 
the creases. He had likewise a pair of little eyes 
that were always half shut up, and a mouth that 
was always half expanded into a grin, as if he 
had, that moment, posed a boy, and were waiting 
to convict him from his own lips. Insomuch, that 
when the Doctor put liis right hand into the 
breast of his coat, and with his other hand behind 
him, and a scarcelj* perceptible wag of his head, 
made the commonest observation to a nervous 
stranger, it was like a sentiment from the Sphinx, 
and settled his business. . . . 

Miss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful 
maid, did no soft violence to the gravity of the 
house. There was no light nonsense about Miss 
Blimber. She kept her hair short and crisp, and 
wore spectacles. She was dry and sandy with 
working in the graves of deceased languages. 
None of your live languages for Miss Blimber. 
They must be dead — stone dead — and then Miss 
Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul. Mrs. Blim- 


ber, lier mamma, was not learned herself, but she 
pretended to be, and that did quite as well. She 
said, at evening parties, that if she could have 
known Cicero, she thought she could have died 
contented. It was the steady joy of her life to 
see the Doctor's young gentlemen go out walking, 
unlike all other young gentlemen, in the largest 
possible shirt collars and the stiff est possible 
cravats. It was so classical, she said. 

As to Mr. Feeder, B.A., Doctor Blimber's assist- 
ant, he was a kind of human barrel-organ, with a 
little list of tunes at which he was continually 
working, over and over again, without any varia- 
tion. He might have been fitted up with a change 
of barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had 
been favorable ; but it had not been ; and he had 
only one, with which, in a monotonous round, it 
was his occupation to bewilder the ideas of Dr. 
Blimber's young gentlemen. The young gentle- 
men were prematurely full of carking anxieties. 
They knew no rest from the pursuit of stony- 
hearted verbs, savage noun substantives, inflexible 
syntactic passages, and ghosts of exercises that 
appeared to them in their dreams. 

Under the forcing system, a young gentleman 
usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. 
He had all the cares of the world on his head in 
three months. He conceived bitter sentiments 
against his parents or guardians in four ; he was 
an old misanthrope in five ; envied Curtius that 
blessed refuge in the earth in six : and at the end 
of the first twelvemonth had arrived at the con- 
clusion, from which he never afterwards departed, 
that all the fancies of the poets, and lessons of the 
sages, were a mere collection of words and gram- 
mar, and had no other meaning in the world. But 
he went on, blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor's 
hot-house, all the time ; and the Doctor's glory 
and reputation were great when he took his 
wintry growth home to his relations and friends. 
— Dombey and Son. 


At this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit star- 


ing in his little arm-chair by the fire, for any 
length of time. He never seemed to know what 
weariness was, when he was looking fixedly at 
Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond of her, he was 
not afraid of her ; but in those old, old moods of 
his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for 
him. There he would sit, looking at her. and 
warming his liands, and looking at her, until he 
sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, Ogress 
as she was. Once she asked him, when they were 
alone, what he was thinking about. 

"You,"' said Paul, without the least reserve. 

"And what are you thinking about me ? " asked 
Mrs. Pipchin. 

"I'm thinking how old yovi must be," said 

" You mustn't say such things as that, young 
gentleman," returned the dame. " That '11 never 

"Why not ? " asked Paul. 

"Because it's not polite," said Mrs. Pipchin 

" Not polite?" said Paul. 


" It 's not polite," said Paul, innocently, "to eat 
all the mutton-chops and toast, Wickam says." 

" Wickam," retorted Mrs. Pipchin, coloring, 
" is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy." 

" What 's that ? " inquired Paul. 

"Never you mind, sir," retorted Mrs. Pipchin. 
" Remember the story of the little boy that was 
gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions." 

" If the bull was mad." said Paul, " how did he 
know that the boy had asked questions ? Nobody 
can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don't 
believe that story." 

" You don't believe it, sir ? " repeated Mrs. Pip- 
chin, amazed. 

" No," said Paul. 

' ' Not if it should happen to have been a tame 
bull, you little infidel?" said Mrs. Pipchin. 

As Paul had not considered the subject in that 
light, and had founded his conclusions on the al- 
leged hmacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be 


put down for tlie present. But he sat turning it 
over in his mind, with such an obvious intention 
of fixing Mrs. Pipchin presently, that even that 
hardy old tady deemed it prudent to reti'eat until 
he should have forgotten the subject. 

From that time, Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have 
something of the same odd kind of attraction to- 
ward Paul, as Paul had toward her. She would 
make him move his chair to her side of the fire, 
instead of sitting oj^posite ; and there he would 
remain in a nook between Mrs. Pipchin and the 
fender, with all the light of his little face absorbed 
into the black bombazeen drapery, studying every 
line and wrinkle of her countenance, and peering 
at the hard gray eye until Mrs. Pipchin was some- 
times fain to shut it on pretence of dozing. 

Mrs. Pijichin had an old black cat, who gener- 
ally lay coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, 
purring egotistically, and winking at the fire un- 
til the contracted pupils of his eyes were like two 
notes of admiration. The good old lady might 
have been — not to record it disrespectfully — a 
witch, and Paul and the cat her two familiars, as 
they all sat by the fire together. It would have 
been quite in keeping with the appearing of the 
party if they had all sprung up the chimney in a 
high wind one night, and never been heard of any 
more. — Dovibey and Son. 


But as Paul himself was no stronger than he had 
been on his first arrival, though he looked much 
healthier in the face, a little carriage was got for 
him, in which he could lie at his ease, with an alpha- 
bet and other elementary works of reference, and 
be wheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in 
his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced 
lad who was proposed as the drawer of this carri- 
age, and selected, instead, his grandfather — a 
w^eazen, old, crab-faced man, in a suit of battered 
oilskin, who had got tough and stringy from long 
pickling in salt water, and who smelt like a weedy 
sea-beach when the tide is out. 

With this notable attendant to pull him along, 


and Florence always walking by his side, and the 
despondent Wickam bringing up the rear, he went 
down to the margin of the ocean every day ; and 
there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours 
together ; never so distressed as by the company 
of children — Florence alone excepted, always. 

" Go away, if you please," he would say to any 
child who came to bear him company. " Thank 
you, but 1 don't want you." 

Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him 
how he was, perhaps. 

" I am very well, I thank you," he would an- 
swer. "But you had better go and play, if you 

Then he would turn his head, and watch the 
child away, and say to Florence, "We don't want 
any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy." 

He had even a dislike, at such times, to the com- 
pany of Wickam, and was well pleased when she 
strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up 
shells and acquaintances. His favorite spot was 
quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers ; 
and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or 
reading to him, or talking to liim, and the wind 
blowing on his face, and tlie water coming up 
among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing 

" Floy," he said one day," where 's India , where 
that boy's friends live ? " 

"Oh, it 's a long, long distance off," said Flor- 
ence, raising her eyes from her work. 

" Weeks off? " asked Paul. 

"Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and 

" If you were in India, Floy," said Paul, after 
being silent for a minute, " I should — what is that 
Mamma did ? I forget." 

"Loved me !" answered Florence. 

" No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What 
is it — Died. If you were in India, I should die, 

She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her 
head down on his pillow, caressing him. And so 


would she, she said, if he were there. He would 
be better soon. 

' ' Oh ! I am a great deal better now! " he answer- 
ed. " I don't mean that. I mean that I should 
die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy ! " 

Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, 
and slept quietly for a long time. Awaking sud- 
denly, he listened, started up, and sat listening. 

Florence asked him what he thought he heard. 

" I want to know what it says," he answered, 
looking steadily in her face. "The sea, Floy, 
what is it that it keeps on saying? " 

She told him that it was only the noise of the 
rolling waves. 

" Yes, yes," he said. '" But I know they are al- 
ways saying something. Always the same thing. 
What place is over there ? " He rose up, looking 
eagerly at the horizon. 

She told him that there was another country op- 
posite, but he said he didn't mean that : he meant 
further away — further away ! 

Very often afterward, in the midst of their talk, 
he would break off, to try to understand what it 
was that the waves were always saying ; and would 
rise up in his couch to look toward that invisible 
region, far away. — Dombey and Son. 


Ham carrying me on his back and a small box 
of ours under his arm, and Peggotty carrying an- 
other small box of ours, we turned down lanes 
bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks of 
sand, and went past gas-works, rope-walks, boat- 
builders' yards, ship-wrights' yards, ship-breakers' 
yards, caulkers' yards, riggers" lofts, smiths' forges, 
and a great litter of such places, until we came 
out upon the dull waste I had already sesn at a 
distance ; when Ham said, 

" Yon's our house, Mas'r Davy ! " 

"I looked in all directions, as far as I could 
stare over the wilderness, and away at the sea, 
and away at the river, but no house could I make 
out. There was a black barge, or some other 
kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and 


dry oil the ground, with an iron funnel sticking 
out of it for a chimney, and smoking very cosily ; 
but nothing else in the way of a habitation that 
was visible to i)ie. 

"That's not it?" said I. ''That ship-looking 
thing ? " 

'•That's it, Mas'r Davj%'" returned Ham. 

If it had been Aladdin's palace, roc's egg and 
all, I suppose I could not have been more charmed 
with the romantic idea of living in it. There was 
a delightful door cut in the side, and it was roofed 
in, and there were little windows in it ; but the 
wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat 
which had no doubt been upon the water hun- 
dreds of times, and which had never been intended 
to be lived in, on dry land. That was the captiva- 
tion of it to me. If it had ever been meant to be 
lived in, I might have thought it small, or incon- 
venient, or lonely ; but never having been de- 
signed for any such use, it became a perfect 

It was beautifuU}- clean inside, and as tidy as 
possible. There was a table, and a Dutch clock, 
and a chest of drawers, and on the chest of draw- 
ers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a 
lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a mili- 
tary-looking child who was trundling a hoop. The 
tray was kept from tumbling down, by a Bible ; 
and the tray, if it had tumbled down, would have 
smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and a tea- 
pot that wei'e grouped around the book. On the 
walls there were some common colored pictures, 
framed and glazed, of scripture subjects ; such as 
I have never seen since in the hands of pedlars, 
without seeing the whole interior of Peggotty's 
brother's house again, at one view. Abraham in 
red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in 
yellow cast into a den of green lions, were the 
most prominent of these. Over the little mantel- 
shelf, was a picture of the Sarah Jane lugger, 
built at Sunderland, with a real little wooden 
stern stuck on to it ; a work of art, combining 
composition with carpentry, which I considered 
to be one of the most enviable possessions that the 


world could afford. There were some hooks in 
the beams of the ceiling, the use of which I did 
not divine then ; and some lockers and boxes and 
conveniences of that sort, which served for seats 
and eked out the chairs. 

All this, I saw in the first glance after I crossed 
the threshold — child-like, according to my theory 
— and then Peggotty opened a little door and 
showed me my bedrooiii. It was the completest 
and most desirable bedroom ever seen — in the 
stern of the vessel ; with a little window, where 
the rvidder used to go through ; a little looking- 
glass, just the right height for me, nailed against 
the wall, and framed with oyster-shells ; a little 
bed, where there was just roo.m enough to get 
into ; and a nosegay of sea- weed in a blue mug on 
the table. The walls were whitewashed as white 
as milk, and the patchw-ork counterpane made 
my eyes quite ache with its brightness. One 
thing I particularly noticed in this delightful 
house, was the smell of fish ; which was so search- 
ing that when I took out my pocket-handkerchief 
to wipe my nose, I found it smelt exactly as if it 
had wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting this 
discovery in confidence to Peggotty, she informed 
me that her brother dealt in lobsters, crabs, and 
crawfish : and I afterwards found that a heap of 
these creatures, in a state of wonderful conglom- 
eration with one another, and never leaving off 
pinching whatever they laid hold of, were usually 
to be found in a little wooden outhouse where the 
pots and kettles were kept. We were welcomed 
by a very civil woman in a white apron, whom I 
had seen curtsying at the door when I was on 
Ham's back, about a quarter of a mile off. Like- 
wise by a most beautiful little girl (or I thought 
her so), with a necklace of blue beads on, who 
wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered to, but 
ran away and hid herself. 

By and by, when we had dined in a sumptuous 
manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and pota- 
toes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very 
good-natured face came home. As he called Peg- 
gottj' " Lass," and gave her a hearty smack on the 


cheek, I had no doubt, from the general propriety 
of her conduct, that he was her brother ; and so 
he turned out— being presently introduced to me 
as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house. . . . 

After tea, when the door was shut and all was 
made snug (the nights being cold and misty now), 
it seemed to me the most delicious retreat that 
the imagination of man could conceive. To hear 
the wind getting up out at sea, to know that the 
fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, 
and to look at the fire and think that there was no 
house near but this one, and this one a boat, was 
like enchantment. Little Em'ly had overcome 
her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the 
lowest and least of tlie lockers, which was just 
large enough for us two, and just fitted into the 
chimney corner. Mrs. Peggotty, with the white 
apron, was knitting on the opposite side of the 
fire. Peggotty at her needle-work was as much 
at home with St. Paul's and the bit of wax-candle, 
as if they had never known any other roof. Ham, 
who had been giving me my first lesson in all- 
fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of telling 
fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off 
fishy impressions of his thumb on all the cards he 
turned. Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I 
felt it was a time for conversation and confidence. 

" Mr. Peggotty ! " says I. 

" Sir," says he. 

'•Did you give your son the name of Ham, be- 
cause you lived in a sort of ark ? " 

Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but 
answered : 

" No. sir. I never giv him no name." 

" Who gave him that name, then ! " said I, put- 
ting question number two of the catechism to Mr. 

"Why, sir, his father giv it him," said Mr. Peg- 

" I thought you were his father ! " 

" My brother Joe was his father," said Mr. Peg- 

" Dead, Mr; Peggotty ? " I hinted, after a respect- 
ful pause. 


"Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty. 

I was very mucli surprised that Mr. Peggotty 
was not Ham's father, and began to wonder 
whether I was mistaken about his relationsliip to 
anybody else there. I was so curious to know, 
that I made up my mind to have it out witli Mr. 

" Little Em'lj," I said, glancing at her. " She 
is your daughter, isn't she, Mr. Peggotty?" 

"No sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her 

I couldn't help it — "Dead, Mr. Peggotty ? '" I 
hinted, after another respectful silence. 

"Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty. 

I felt the difficulty of resuming tlie subject, but 
had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get 
to the bottom somehow. So I said: "Haven't 
you any children, Mr. Peggotty ? " 

" No, master," he answered, with a short laugh. 
" I 'm a bacheldore." 

' 'A bachelor ! " I said astonished. ' ' Why, 
who 's that, Mr. Peggotty ? " pointing to the per- 
son in the apron, who was knitting. 

" That 's Missis Gummidge," said Mr. Peggotty. 
— David Copperfield. 


In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind 
and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeaka- 
ble confusion, and my first breathless efforts to 
stand against the weather, I was so confused that 
I looked out to sea for tlie wreck, and saw nothing 
but the foaming heads of the great waves. A 
half-dressed boatman, standing next me^ pointed 
with his bare arm (a tattoo'd arrow on it, pointing 
in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great 
Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us ! 

One mast was broken short off. six or eight feet 
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in 
a maze of sail and rigging ; and all that ruin, as 
the ship rolled and beat — which she did without a 
moment's pause, and with a violence quite incon- 
ceivable — beat the side as if it would stave it in. 
Some efforts were even then being made, to cut 


tliis portion of the wreck away ; for, as the ship, 
which was broadside on, turned towards us in her 
rolling, I plainly descried her people at work 
with axes, especially one active figure with long 
curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But, a 
great cry, which was audible even above the ^vind 
and water, rose from the shore at this moment ; 
the sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a 
clean breach, and carried men, spars, casks, 
planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the 
boiling surge. The second mast was yet standing, 
with the rags of a rent sail, and a wild confusion 
of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship 
had struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said 
in ray ear, and then lifted in and struck again. I 
understood him to add that she was parting amid- 
ships, and I could readily suppose so, for the roll- 
ing and beating were too tremendous for any 
human work to suff"er long. As he spoke, there 
was another great cry of pity from the beach ; 
four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, 
clinging to the rigging of the remaining mast : 
uppermost, the active figure with the curling 

Tiiere was a bell on board ; and as the ship 
rolled and dashed, like a desperate creature driven 
mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her 
deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the 
shore, now nothing but her keel, as she sprung 
wildly over and turned towards the sea, the bell 
rang ; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy 
men, was borne towards us on the wind. Again 
we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were 
gone. The agony on shore increased. Men 
groaned, and clasped their hands ; women slu-iek- 
ed, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly 
up and down along the beach, crying for help 
where no help could be. I found myself one of 
these frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom 
I knew, not to let those two lost creatures perish 
before our eyes. They were making out to me, in 
an agitated way — I don't know how, for the little 
I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to 
understand — that the life-boat had been bravely 


manned an hour ago, and could do nothing ; and 
that as no man would be so desperate as to at- 
tempt to wade off with a rope, and establish a 
communication with the shore, there was nothing 
left to try : when I noticed that some new sensa- 
tion moved the people on the beach, and saw them 
part, and Ham come breaking through them to 
the front. 

I ran to him — as well as I know, to repeat my 
appeal for help. But, distracted though I was, 
by a sight so new and ten-ible, the determination 
in his face, and his look out to sea — exactlj^ the 
same look as I remembered in connection with the 
morning after Emily's flight — awoke me to a 
knowledge of his danger. I held him back with 
both arms ; and implored the men witli whom I 
had been speaking, not to listen to him, not to do 
naurder, not to let him stir from off that sand ! 

Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the 
wi-eck, we saw tlie cruel sail, with blow on blow, 
beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up in 
triumph round the active figure left alone upon 
the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such deter- 
mination as that of the calmly desperate man who 
was already accustomed to lead half the people pres- 
ent, I might asliopefuUy have entreated the wind. 
" Mas'r Davy," he said, cheerily grasping me by 
both hands, '• if my time is come, 'tis come. If 't 
an't I' 11 bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless 
all ! Mates, make me ready I I' m a-going off ! " 

I was swept away, but not vinkindly, to some 
distance, where the people around me made me 
stay ; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he 
was bent on going, with help or without, and that 
I should endanger the precautions for his safety 
by troubling those with whom they rested. I 
don't know what I answered, or what they rejoin- 
ed ; but, I saw huny on the beach, and men run- 
ning with ropes from a capstan that was there, 
and penetrating into a cu-cle of figures that hid 
him from me. Then, I saw him standing alone, 
in a seaman's frock and trowsers : a rope in his 
hand, or slung to his wrist : another round his 


body ; and several of the best men holding, at a 
little distance, to the latter, which lie laid out 
himself, slack upon the shore, ut his feet. 

The wreck, even to my uupracticed eye, was 
breaking up. I saw that she was parting in the 
middle, and that the life of the solitary man upon 
the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to 
it. He had a singular red cap on— not like a sail- 
or's cap, but of a finer color ; and as the few 
yielding planks between him and destruction roll- 
ed and bulged, and his anticipative death-knell 
rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I saw 
him do it now, and thought I was going dis- 
tracted, when his action brought an old remem- 
brance to my mind of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
silence of suspended breath behind him, and the 
storm before, until there was a great retiring 
wave, when, with a backward glance at those 
who held the rope which was made fast round his 
body, he dashed in after it, and in a moment was 
buffeting with the water ; rising with the hills, 
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam : 
then drawn again to land. They hauled in 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from 
where I stood : but he took no thought of that. 
He seemed huniedly to give them some directions 
for leaving him more free — or so I judged from 
the motion of his arm — and was gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with 
the hills, falling with the valleys, lost Ijeneath 
the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore, borne 
on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. 
The distance was nothing, but the power of the sea 
and wind made the strife deadly. At length he 
neared the wreck. He was so near, that with one 
more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging 
to it — when, a high, green, vast hill-sido of water, 
moving in shoreward, from beyond the ship, he 
seemed to leap up into it with a mighty Iwund, and 
the ship was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if 
a mere cask had been broken, in running to the 



spot where they were hauhng in. Consternation 
was in every face. They drew him to my very 
feet — insensible — dead. He was carried to the 
nearest house ; and — no one prevented me now — I 
remained riear him, busy, while every means of 
restoration were tried ; but he had been beaten to 
death by the great wave, and his generous heart 
was stilled for ever. 

As I sat beside the bed when hope was abandon- 
ed and all was done, a fisherman, who had known 
me when Emily and I were children, and ever 
since, whispered my name at the door. 

"Sir," said he. with tears starting to his 
weather-beaten face, which, with his trembUng 
lips, was ashy pale, "will you come over 
yonder ? " 

The old remembrance that had been recalled to 
me, was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, 
leaning on the arm he held out to support me : 

" Has a body come ashore ? " 

He said " Yes." 

" Do I know it? " I asked then. 

He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on that part 
of it wliere she and I had looked for shells, two 
ciiildren— on that part of it where some lighter 
fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, 
had been scattered by tlie wind — among tbe ruins 
of the home he had wronged — I saw him lying 
with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen 
him lie at school. 

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we 
last spoke together, in that hour which I so little 
deemed to be our parting hour — no need to have 
said, "Think of me at ray best ! " I had done that 
ever ; and could I change now, looking on this 
sight ! They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on 
it, and covered him with a flag, and took him up 
and bore him on towards the houses. All the men 
who carried him had known him, and gone sail- 
ing with him, and seen him meny and bold. They 
carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the 
midst of all the tumult ; and took him to the cot- 
tage where Death was already. But when they 


set tlie bier down on the threshold, they looked at 
one another, and at me, and whispered. I know 
why. They felt as if it were not right to lay him 
down in the same quiet room. — David Copperfield. 


At what period of her early life, the little creat- 
ure began to perceive that it was not the habit of 
all the world to live locked up in narrow yards 
surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, 
would be a difficult question to settle. But she 
was a very, very little creature indeed, when she 
had somehow gained the knowledge, that her 
clasp of her father's hand was to be always loos- 
ened at the door which the great key opened ; and 
that while lier own light steps were free to pass 
beyond it, liis feet must never cross that line. A 
pitiful and plaintive look, with which she had be- 
gun to regard him when she was still extremely 
young, was perhaps a part of this discovery. 

With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything 
indeed, but with something in it for only him 
that was like protection, this Child of the Marshal- 
sea and child of the Father of the Marshalsea, 
sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept 
the family room, or wandered about the prison- 
yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a 
pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister ; 
for her idle brother ; for the high blank walls ; for 
the faded crowd they shut in ; for the game 
of the prison children as they Avhooped and ran, 
and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron 
bars of the inner gateway " Home." .... 

The first half of sixteen years of her life was only 
just accomplished, when her pitiful and plaintive 
look saw her father a widower. From that time 
the protection that her wondering eyes had ex- 
pressed towards him, became embodied in action, 
and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon herself 
a new relation towards the Father. 

At first, such a baby could do little more than 
sit with hinj, deserting her livelier place by the 
high fender, and quietly watching him. But this 
made her so far necessary to him that he became 


accustomed to lier, and began to be sensible of 
missing her when she was not there. Through 
this little gate, she passed out of childhood into 
the care-laden world. 

What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, 
in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the 
jail ; how much, or how little of the wretched 
truth it pleased God to make visible to her ; lies 
hidden with many mysteries. Ic is enough that 
she was inspired to be something which was not 
what the rest were, and to be that something, dif- 
ferent and laborious, for the sake of the rest. In- 
spired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration 
of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled 
by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in 
the lowliest way of life ! 

With no earthly friend to help her, or so much 
as to see her, but the one so strangely assorted ; 
with no knowledge even of the common daily 
tone and habits of the common members of the 
free community who are not shut up in prisons; 
born and bred, in a social condition, false even 
with a reference to the falsest condition outside 
the walls ; drinking from infancy of a well w4iose 
waters had their own peculiar stain, their own un- 
wholesome and unnatural taste ; the Child of the 
Marshalsea began her womanly life. 

No matter through what mistakes and discour- 
agements, what ridicule (not unkindly meant, but 
deeply felt) of her youth and her little figure, 
what humble consciousness of her own babyhood 
and want of strength, even in the matter of lift- 
ing and carrying ; througli how much weariness 
and hopelessness, and howcnany seci'et tears ; she 
trudged on, until recognized as useful, even indis- 
pensable. That time came. She took the place 
of eldest of the three, in all things but precedence ; 
was the head of the fallen family ; and bore, in 
her own heart, its anxieties and shames. 

At thirteen she could read and keep accounts — 
that is, could put down in words and figures how 
much the bare necessaries that they wanted would 
cost, and how much less they had to buy them 
with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks 


at a time, to an evening school outside, and got 
her sister and brother sent to day-schools by de- 
sultory starts, during three or four years. There 
was no instruction for any of them at home ; but 
she knew well — no one better— that a man so 
broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, 
could be no father to his own children. 

To these scanty means of improvement, she 
added another of her own contriving. Once, 
among the heterogeneous crowd of inmates there 
appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a 
great desire to know the dancing-master's art, and 
seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen 
years old, the Child of the Mai-shalsea presented 
herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in 
her hand, and preferred her humble petition. 
" If you please, I was born here, sir." 
" Oh ! You are the young lady, are you? " said 
the dancing-master, surveying the small figure 
and uplifted face. 
"Yes, sir." 

" And what can I do for you ? " said the danc- 

"Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously 
undrawing the strings of the little bag, " but if, 
wliile you stay here, you could be so kind as to 
teach my sister cheap — " 

" My child, I '11 teach her for nothing," said the 
dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as 
good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to 
the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. . . . 

The success of this beginning, which led to the 
dancing-master's continuing his instruction after 
his release, emboldened the poor child to try again. 
She waited and watched months for a seamstress. 
In the fulness of time a milliner came in, and to 
her she repaired on her own behalf. The milliner 
took her in hand in good will, found her the most 
patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a cun- 
ning work-woman in course of time. 

In course of time, and in the very self-same 
course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea 
gradually developed a new flower of character. 
The more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea. 


and the more dependent he grew on the contribu- 
tions of his changing family, the greater stand he 
made by his forlorn gentihty. With tlie same 
hand that he pocketed a collegian's half-crown 
half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears 
that streamed over his cheeks if any reference 
were made to his daughters' earning their bread. 
So, over and above her other daily cares, the Child 
of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care 
of preserving the genteel fiction that they were all 
idle beggars together. The sister became a dancer. 
There was a ruined uncle in the family gi'oup — 
ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshal- 
sea, and knowing no more how, than his ruiner 
did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable cer- 
tainty — on whom her protection devolved. . . . 

To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shil- 
lings, it was necessary for the Child of the 
Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with 
the Father. '* Fanny is not going to live with us 
just now, father. She will be here a good deal in 
the day, but she is going to live outside with 

' ' You surprise me. Why ? " 

"I think uncle wants a companion, father. He 
should be attended to, and looked after." 

"A companion? Repasses much of his time 
here. And you attend to him and look after him. 
Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. 
You all go out so much ; you all go out so much." 

This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence 
of his having no idea that Amy herself went out 
by the day to work. 

" But we are always very glad to come home, 
father ; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, per- 
haps besides keeping uncle company and taking 
care of him, it may be as well for her not quite 
to live liere, always. She was not born here as 
I was, you know, father." 

•' Well, Amy, well. I don't quite follow you, but 
it 's natural I suppose tliat Fanny should prefer to 
be outside, and even that you often should, too. 
So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall 


have your own way. Good, good. I "11 not med- 
dle ; don't mind me."' 

To get her brother out of the prison : out of the 
succession to Mrs. Bangham in executing com- 
missions, and out of tlie slang interchange with 
very doubtful companions, consequent upon both, 
was her hardest task. At eighteen he would have 
dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to 
hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody 
got into the prison from whom he derived any- 
thing useful or good, and she could fmd no patron 
for him but her old friend and godfather. 

"Dear Bob," said she, "what is to liecome of 
poor Tip?" His name was Edward, and Ted had 
been transformed into Tip within the walls. 

The turnkey had strong private opinions as to 
what would become of poor Tip. and had even 
gone so far, with tlie view of averting their fulfil- 
ment, as to sound Tij) in reference to the expedi- 
ency of running away and going to serve his 
country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he 
didn't seem to care for his country. 

"Well, my dear," said the turnkey, "something 
ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and 
get him into the law ? " 

" That would be so good of you, Bob I "' 

The turnkey had now two points to put to the 
professional gentlemen as they passed in and out. 
He put this second one so perseveringly, that a 
stool and twelve shillings a week were at last 
found for Tip in the office of an attorney in a 
great National Palladium called the Palace Court; 
at that time one of a considerable list of everlast- 
ing bulwarks to the dignity and safetj' of Albion, 
whose places know them no more. 

Tip languished at Clifford's Inn for six months, 
and at the expiration of that term, sauntered back 
one evening with his hands in his pockets, and in- 
cidentally obseived to his sister that he was not 
going back again. 

"Not going back again':'" said the poor little 
anxious Child of the Marshaisea, always calculat- 
ing and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her 


"I am so tired of it," said Tip, " that I have cut 

Tip tired of everything. With intervals of 
Marshalsetr lounging, and Mrs. Banghani succes- 
sion, his small second mother, aided by her trusty 
friend, got him into a warehouse, into a mai-ket 
garden, into the hop trade, into the law again, 
into an auctioneer's, into a brewery, into a stock- 
broker's, into the law again, into a coach office, 
into a wagon office, into the law again, into a 
general dealer's, into a distillery, into the law 
again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, 
into the Billingsgate trade, into the foi'eign fruit 
trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip 
went into, he came out of tired, announcing that 
he had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoom- 
ed Tip appeared to take the prison walls with 
him, and to set them up in such trade or calling ; 
and to jirowl about within their narrow limits in 
the old slip-shod, purposeless, down-at-heel way ; 

ntil the real immovable Marshalsea walls assert- 
ed then- fascination over him, and brought him 

Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix 
lier heart on her brother's rescue, that while he 
was ringing out those doleful changes, she pinched 
and sci-aped enough together to ship him for Can- 
ada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and dis- 
posed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously 
consented to go to Canada. And there was grief 
in her bosom over parting with him. and joy in 
the hope of his being put in a straight com-se at 

" God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too proud 
to come and see us, when you have made your 

•' All right ! " said Tip, and went. 

But not all the way to Canada : in fact, not fur- 
ther than Liverpool. After making the voyage 
to that port from London, he found himself so 
strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolv- 
ed to walk back again. Carrying out which in- 
tention, he jjresented hiiiiself before her at the ex- 


piration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and 
much more tired than ever. . . . 

This was the life, and this the history, of the 
Child of the Marshalsea, at twenty-two. With a 
still surviving attachment to the one miserable 
yard and block of houses as her birth-place and 
home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly now, 
with a womanly consciousness that she was point- 
ed out to every one. Since she liad begun to work 
beyond the walls, slie had found it necessary to 
conceal where she lived, and to come and go as 
secretly as she covild. between the free city and 
the iron gates, outside of which slie had never 
slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown 
with this concealment, and her light step and her 
little figure shunned the thronged streets while 
they passed along them. 

Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she 
was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the 
mist tlirough which she saw her father, and the 
prison, and the turbid living river that flowed 
through it and flowed on. — Little Dorrit. 

It is the old girl's birtliday ; and that is the 
greatest holiday and reddest letter day in Mr. Bag- 
net's calendar. The auspicious event is always 
commemorated according to certain forms, settled 
and prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. 
Mr, Bagnet, being deeply convinced that to have 
a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest 
pitch of imperial luxury, invariabh' goes forth 
himself very early in the morning of this day to 
buy a pair ; he is as invariably taken in by the 
vender, and installed in the possession of the old- 
est inhabitants of any coop in Europe, Return- 
ing with these ti-iumphs of toughness tied up in a 
clean blue-and-white cotton handkerchief essen- 
tial to the aiTangements, he in a casual manner, 
invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast what 
she would like for dinner, Mrs. Bagnet, by a co- 
incidence never known to fail, replying fowls^ 
Mr. Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a 
place of concealment, amidst general amazement 


and rejoicing. He further requires that the old 
girl shall do nothing all day long, but sit in her 
very best gown, and be served bj- himself and the 
young people. As he is not illustrious for his 
cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of 
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part ; 
but she keeps her state with all imaginable cheer- 

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accom- 
plished the usual preliminaries. He lias bought 
two specimens of poultry, which, if there be any 
truth in adages, were certainly not caught with 
chaff, to be prepared for the spit ; he lias amazed 
and rejoiced tlie family by their unlooked-for 
production ; he is himself directing tlie roasting 
of the poultry ; and Mrs. Bagnet, with lier whole- 
some brown fingers itching to prevent what she 
sees going wrong, sits in her gown of ceremony 
an honored guest. Quebec and Malta Lay the cloth 
for dinner, while Woolwich, serving as beseems 
him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. 
To these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally 
imparts a wink, or a shake of the head, or a 
crooked face, as they make mistakes. The dinner 
is a little endangered by the dry humor of the 
fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the 
made gravy acquiring no flavor, and turning out 
of a flaxen complexion. With a similar perverse- 
ness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process 
of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every 
direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes 
The legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could 
be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming 
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. 
Bagnet at last dishes, and they sit down at table, 
Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's place at his 
right hand. It is well for the old girl that she has 
but one birthday a year, for two such indulgences 
in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of 
finer tendon and ligameiit that it is in the nature 
of poultry to possess, is developed in those speci- 
mens in the singular form of guitar-strings. Their 
limbs appear to have struck roots into their breasts 
and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the 


earth. Th(>ir legs are so hard as to encourage the 
i(l«'.i tliat tliey must have devoted tlie greater part 
of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian exer- 
cises, and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bag- 
net, unconscious of these little defects, sets his 
heart on Mrs. Bagnet's eating a most severe quan- 
tity of the delicacies hefore her ; anti as that good 
old girl would not cause him a moment's disap- 
pointment on any day, least of all on such a daj-, for 
any consideration, she imperils her digestion fear- 
fully. How joung Woolwich cleans the drum- 
sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anx- 
ious mother is at a loss to understand. 

The old girl has another trial to undergo after 
the conclusion of the repast, in sitting in state to 
see the room cleared, the hearth swept, and the 
dinner-service washed np and polished in the back 
jard. The great delight and energy with which 
the tvro young ladies apph' themselves to these 
duties, turning uj) their skirts in imitation of their 
motlier, and skating in and out on little scaffolds 
of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, 
but some anxiety for the present. ... At last the 
various cleansing processes are triumphantly com- 
pleted ; . . . and the old girl enjoys the first peace 
of mind she ever knows on the day of this delight- 
ful entertainment. — Bleak House. 

DIDEROT, Denis, a French savant, bom 
in 1713, died in 1784. He was educated for 
the Church, but abandoning theologj' he en- 
tered an attorney's oflSce at Paris, devoting 
himself, however, to literature rather than 
to law. In consequence of the laxity of some 
of his earlier works, he was thrown into 
prison. After his release in 1749 he plan- 
ned, in conjunction with D'Alembert, the 
great Encyclox)edie, upon which his reputa- 
tion mainly rests. The first two volumes of 
the Encyclopedie appeared in 1751; they 
were suppressed by the authorities in conse- 
quence of their alleged hostility to the Chris- 
tain religion The suspension was revoked 


after a year or two ; but in 1757, when five addi- 
tional volumes had appeared, the suspension 
was again ordered. D'Alenibert now aban- 
doned the work : but Diderot carried it on ; 
and to escape the censorship, the remaining 
ten volumes were nominally issued at Neuf- 
chatel instead of Paris. Besides the Ency- 
clopedie, and during its progress, and after 
its conclusion. Diderot Avrote numerous other 
works — fictitious, dramatic, and historical. A 
collected edition of his works, in 15 volumes, 
appeared in 1708; a more complete one, in 22 
volumes, in 1822, to Avhich, in 1830, were add- 
ed 4 volumes of Memoirs ct (Euvres inedites. 

The Preface prefixed to the first volume of 
the Encyclopedie, bears the joint signatures of 
Diderot and D'Alembert. This preface itself 
would form a considerable volume. We give 
a few extracts : 


The Encyclopaedia, to be now laid before the 
public is not the work of a single hand or two : 
but of a learned body, all the members whereof, 
except ourselves, either have or deserve an estab- 
lished character as authors. We presume not to 
anticipate a judgment which only belongs to the 
proper judges: but think it incumbent upon lis to re- 
move an objection that might otherwise prejudice 
this great undertaking; We therefore declare, that 
far from the rashness of charging ourselves with 
a load so disproportioned to our strength, our 
part, as editors, principally consists in arranging 
the articles, chiefly contributed by others, en- 
tire. . . . The Work has two principal views. 
Thai of an Encyclopaedia and that of a Philosoph- 
ical Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Trades. As 
an Encyclopaedia, it should exhibit, as much as 
possible, the order, succession, and connection of 
all the parts of human knowledge. As a Philo- 
sophical Dictionary, it should contain the general 
principles, or fundamentals, of every science and 


every UTt, trhether liberal or mechanical : along 
with the most essential descriptions that consti- 
tute the body or substance of each respectively. . . 
All human knowledge may be divided into direct 
and reflex. The " direct" is what we receive im- 
mediately by the senses, without any exertion of 
the will, and comes uncalled and unobstructed to 
the mind. The "reflex" is what the mind ac- 
quires by speculating upon the " direct," in the 
way of uniting, separating, arranging, or combin- 
ing. As all our direct knowledge comes in by the 
senses, all our Ideas are consequently owing to 
our Sensations. — Preface to the Encyclopaedia. 


Man is not contented to live and reign among 
his contemporaries alone ; but, drawn by curiosity 
and self-love, eagerly and naturally endeavors at 
once to embrace the past, the present, and the 
future times. We desire at once to live with our 
successors and our predecessors. This shows us 
the origin and design of History, wliieh unites us 
witli the ages past, by representing their vices, 
virtues, knowledge, and errors ; and transmitting 
our own to posterity. It is only bj- History we 
learn to esteem men only for the good they do, 
and not for the seducing pomp that surrounds 
them. Sovereigns who are so unhappy as to be 
excluded from tiuth on all sides, may here pass 
judgment upon themselves beforehand ; for His- 
tory is a tremendous, uncornipt tribunal, which 
judges their resembling predecessors just as it will 
do them. Chronology and Geography are the two 
appendages, or supporters of History : the one 
fixing the inhabitants of the earth in jioint of 
time ; and the other assigning their place upon 
our globe. They both derive great advantages 
from the history of the earth and heavens, or from 
historical facts and celebrated observations : and 
may therefore be regarded as descendants of 
Astronomy and History. 

It is one of the principal advantages arising 
from the history of empires, and their revolutions, 
to see how mankind, separated as it were into 


numerous large families, formed different Socie- 
ties ; how these Societies gave rise to different 
forms of Government ; and how each people en- 
deavored to distinguish themselves from the rest 
by Laws, and by particular signs as the means of 
more easily communicating their thoughts ; 
whence arose that great diversity of languages 
and laws which, to our misfortune, is become a 
principal object of stud}-. Hence also we see the 
origin of Civil Policy, as a particular and higher 
kind of Morality, to which it is sometimes diffi- 
cult, without straining, lo accommodate the prin- 
ciples of common moral duty. For. Civil Policy, 
entering into the principal motives of Govern- 
ment, aims at discovering what may tend to pre- 
serve, weaken, or destroy a State. This is per- 
haps the most difficult kind of study. It requires 
a deep knowledge of mankind in general, and of 
the people to be governed, in particular ; as also 
a great compass and variety of abilities : especially 
if the politician would not forget that the Law of 
Nature, being prior to all particular Associations, 
is the first Law of the People ; and that his being 
a Statesman does not preclude his being a Man. — 
Preface to the Encyelopcedia. 


The contempt thrown upon mechanic arts, seems 
in a degree, to reach their Inventors. The names 
of these benefactors to mankind are rarely heard 
of ; whilst the great destroyers of our species — 
called Conquerors — are universally known. Yet 
we find among artisans many extraordinary 
proofs of sagacity, genius, assiduity, and inven- 
tion. Most arts, indeed, are discovered by de- 
grees ; and ages have been employed in bringing 
them to perfection : as we remarkably find in 
watch-work. And the same may be said of the 
sciences. How many discoveries, which have im- 
mortalized their finishers, were begun and con- 
tinued by the labor of preceding ages ! Some of 
them, already brought near to perfection, might 
require little more than a single addition. Should 
not the inventors of the spring, the chain, and ve- 


peating parts of a Watch beequallj-esteemotl with 
those who have successively studied to perfect Al- 
gebra? But though the contempt cast upon the 
Arts may not have hindered their gradual im- 
provement, yet there are certain machines so com- 
plicated, and tlieir parts so depending upon one 
another, that it is hard to conceive they should 
have been invented b}- different persons. Such ex- 
traordinary inventors — instead of having their 
names buried in oblivion — might well deserve 
a place among the few discoverers who strike out 
new paths of science. -Pre/ace to theEncyclopcedia. 


It follows, from what has already been said, that 
the different waj's in Avhich our mind operates 
upon objects, and the different uses it derives 
from them, are tlie first means of distinguishing, 
in general, our different kinds of knowledge from 
each other ; and that the whole of it relates to our 
wants, either of necessity, convenience, amuse- 
ment, real use, or capricious abuse. The more re- 
mote our wants are, or the more difficult to sup- 
ply, the more slow is the progress of our knowl- 
edge. What advances would the art of Physic 
have made, to the discredit of sciences merely 
speculative, were its principles as certain as those 
of Geometry ! — Preface to the Encyclopoedia. 


The general division of knowledge, according to 
the three faculties of our minds, enables us to 
make a correspondent division of the literary 
world into Men of Erudition, Pliilosophers, and 
Wits. Memorj- is the predominant talent of the 
first, Sagacity of the second. Pleasing of the third : 
so that, taking Memory for the beginning of Re- 
flection, and adding the combinatory and imita- 
torial parts thereto, it ma\' be said in general, that 
the difference betwixt men consists in the nature 
and the number of the ideas of Reflection each 
man has respectively ; and that, Reflection alone, 
taken in its most extensive sense, forms the char- 
acter, or special differences, of men's minds. 


These three republics into which we divide the 
literary world, have scarce anything in common 
besides a mutual contempt of each other. The 
philosopher' and the poet regard each other as 
frantics, fed with chimeras. Tliey both agree 
tliat the man of erudition is a miser, hoarding the 
wealth he never enjoys : and treasuring up the 
basest as anxiously as the most valuable coin. 
The man of erudition, regarding the finest produc- 
tions of genius, witliout facts, but as mere groups 
of words, equally despises poets and philosophers 
for fancying themselves rich, only because their 
expenses outrun their income. And in this man- 
ner it is that men endeavor to make their own 
deficiences good. 

But the learned would better consult their in- 
terest if. instead of pretending to stand separate, 
they mutually supported each other. Society is 
certainly indebted to the polite arts for its princi- 
pal pleasures, and to philosophy for its knowledge. 
But both of these are greatly beholden to Memory, 
which preserves the original matter of all our 
knowledge. The labors of the learned have fur- 
nished many a subject for philosophers and poets 
to work on. The ancients, says a modern, by 
styling the Muses Daughters of Memory, thereby 
showed how necessary they thought it to the other 
faculties of the soul. The Romans built temples 
to Memory as well as to Fortune. — Preface to the 


M. D'Alembert has either drawn up or revised 
all the articles of Mathematics and Natural Phi- 
losophy that do not depend upon the parts already 
mentioned ; and has furnished some few articles 
in the other branches of science. In the articles 
of Transcendental Mathematics he has particular- 
ly endeavored to show the general nature of 
Methods ; to point out the best books, where the 
most important particulars in every subject may 
be found ; to clear up what seemed but imper- 
perfectly, or scarce a.t all attempted before ; and, 

360 DIES IR^. 

as far as possible, to give accurate arnl simple 
metaphysical principles in all cases. 

But the province of M. Diderot is more labori- 
ous : he being the author of the most extensive 
and important part of this Dictionary— a part the 
most wanted by the public, and the most difix ;ult 
to execute ; inz., ihe History of Arts. This K's- 
tory M. Diderot drew up from memoirs communi- 
cated to him either by workmen or lovers of Art, 
or from verbal and ocular information of artificers 
employed at their work, or of handcraftsmen, 
which he took the trouble of examining, and 
sometimes causing models to be made of their en- 
gines and apparatus, that he might study them 
more at his leisure. To this complicated under- 
taking, whiih he executed with great exactness, 
he had added another no less considerable, by 
supplying in different parts of our Work an im- 
mense number of articles that were wanting. He 
applied himself to the task with a disinterestedness 
that does honor to his learning, and a zeal deserv- 
ing the acknowledgment of all well-wishers to 
Science. — Preface to the Encyclopcedia. 

DIES IR^,a famous medieval Latin Hymn, 
usually cited by the two opening vs^ords, 
although the proper title is, De Novissimo 
Judicio, "On the Last Judgment." There 
has been some question as to the authorship 
of this Hymn : but there can be little doubt 
that it was composed by Thomas of Celano, 
an Italian monk of the Franciscan Order, who 
died in 1255. The Hymn has been many 
times translated and paraphrased. In the fol- 
lowing version, an attempt has been made 
not only to give the meaning but to reproduce 
the form of the original. 

Dies ircB, dies ilia 
Solvet sceclum in favilld, 
Teste David cum Sihylld. 

Day of wrath ! ah me that day ! 

Earth to ashes melts away, 

David and the Sibyl say. 

DIES IR^. 361 

Qvantus tremor est futurus. 
Quando Judex est venturus, 
Cuncta striete discussurus. 

Ah, what trembling and affright. 

When the Judge shall come in sight. 

All to searcli in strictest right. 


Tuba, mirum spargens sonum 

Per sepulchra regionum, 

Coget oniues ante thronum. 

Sends the trump its wondrous tone 
Through the graves of every zone, 
Bidding all before the throne. 


Mors stupebit et natura, 
Qmim resurget creatura 
Judicanti rcsjyonsura. 

Nature, with death, astounded lies 

When all created things arise. 

Before the Judge to make replies. 


Liber seriptus proferetur, 
In quo totum continetur, 
De quo mundusjudicetur. 

Forth is brought the written scroll, 

Whereb}'. if for bliss or dole, 

Judged shall be every soul. 


Judex ergo, quuvi sedebit. 

Quidquid latet, apparebit, 

Nil inultam reiiumebit. 

See the Judge his seat assume : 
Hidden things emerge from gloom ; 
Nothing shall escape its doom. 


Quod stun miser tunc dictuj'us, 

Quern patronum rogafurus. 

Quum vix Justus est securus ? 

Wretched me, what shall I say, 

Unto what protector pray, 

When the just shall scarce find star ? 

362 DIES IR^. 

Bex tremendcR majestatis, 
Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
Salve me, fans pietatis ! 

King of awful majesty, 

Who to the savpd giv'st safety free, 
Save me, fount of lenity. 


Recordare, Jesu pie, 
Quod sum causa tuce vice: 
Ne me perdas ilia die. 

Gentle Jesu, think, I pray, 

1 am cause of thy hard way : 
Let me not perish in that day. 


Qiicerens me sediate lassiis, 

Redemisti crucem passus : 

Tantus labor non sit cassus. 

Me seeking hast thou wearied lain 
Redeemed me with thy mortal pain : 
Let not such labor be in vain. 


Juste Judex ultionis, 

Donum fac I'emissionis 

Ante diem rationis .' 

Righteous Judge of retribution, 
Unto me grant absolution 
Ere the day of execution ! 


Tngemisco tanquam reus, 

Cidjxi rubet vultus mens : 

Supplicanti jyarce, Deus ! 

Here culprit-like, I groaning bow, 
The flush of guilt is on my brow ; 
Spare, O God. thy suppliant now. 


Qui Mariam absolvisti, 

Et latronum exaudisti ; 

Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 

Thou didst from guilt set Mary free, 
Didst hear the tiiief on Calvary ; 
Hope hast thou also given to me. 



Prceces mece non sunt tlignce, 
Sed tu bonus fan benigne, 
Ne perennicremer igne ! 

Of nothing worth are prayers of mine, 

But unto nie be thou benign, 

Nor to eternal fire consign ! 


Inter oves locum prcesta, 

Et ab Iwedis me sequestra, 

Statue7is i)i parte dextrd ! 

Among thy siieep O let me stand, 
Sequestered from the goatish band, 
Stationed secure at thy right hand, 


Confutatis maledictis, 
Flamviis acHbus addictis, 
Voca me cum benedictis. 

When the cursed are confounded, 

And by fiercest flames surrounded, 

Unto me be mercy sounded. 
Oro supplex et acclinis. 
Cor contritam quasi cinis ; 
Gere curam viei finis. 

Heart crushed to ashes, I am bending. 

Unto thee petition sending. 

Give to me care at my ending, 
Lachrymosa dies ilia, 
Qua resurget ex favillcL, 
Judicantis homo reus : 
Huic ergo parce, Deus. 

Full of tears will be that day 

When man to judgment springs from clay, 

Guilty man for sentence there — 

Spare him, O God, in mercy spare. 
—Transl. of Alfred H. Guernsey. 

DILKE, Sir Charles Wentworth, Baronet, 
an English statesman and author, bom in 
1843. His father, also Charles Wentworth 
Dilke (1810-1869) was the son of another 


Charles Wentworth Dilke, (1789-1864) editor 
and proprietor of the Athenceum and of other 
periodicals. This second Charles Wentworth 
Dilke was educated at Westminster School 
and at Cambridge ; was one of the most active 
promoters of the Crystal Palace Exhibition of 
1851 ; one of the Royal Commissioners at the 
New York Crystal Palace Exhibition in 1853, 
and of the second London Exhibition in 1862, 
when he was created a Bai-onet. He sat in 
Parliament from 1865 to 1868. 

The third Cbarles Wentworth Dilke was 
educated at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, where.he 
graduated as "Senior Legalist " in 1866, and 
was called to the bar at Middle Temple. Di- 
rectly afterwards, he set out upon an extensive 
tour, visiting Canada ; the Eastern and North- 
western States of the Union, Utah, Colorado, 
and California; New Zealand, Austraha, and 
India — nearly all the regions which are 
peopled or governed by the English-speaking 
race. This tour occupied nearly two years. 
The narrative of his observations was pub- 
lished in 1868, under the title Greater Brit- 
ain : a Record of Travel in English-speaking 
Conntries. Upon the death of his father he 
succeeded to the baronetcy and to the proprie- 
torship of the Athenceum and of Notes and 
Queries. In 1874 he published anonymously 
a pohtical satire entitled The Fall of Prince 
Florestan of Monaco. In 1875 he edited the 
w^orks of his grandfather, under the title of 
Papers of a Critic ; and in the same year he 
made a visit to China and Japan, of which he 
pubhshed accounts in Magazines. 

Meanwhile in 1868 he was returned to Par- 
liament for the new borough of Chelsea, and 
was returned to the successive Pai'haments, 
notwithstanding that he publicly avowed 
that he preferred a republican to a monarch- 
ical form of government. In 1880 he became 


Under-Secretary of State, in the administra- 
tion of Mr. Gladstone; and at the close ot 
1882 he was made President of the Local Go^•- 
ernment Board, with a seat in the Cabinet. 
He was now universally recognized as one of 
the most rising public men of the time. But 
in 1885 he was made co-defendant in a suit 
brought for divorce, upon ground of adultery. 
The Court brought in a verdict against him. 
At his instance a re-hearing of the case was 
had, when the former decision was emphatic- 
ally confirmed. 


In 1866 and 1867 I followed England roiuid tlie 
world : everywhere I was in English speaking, or 
in English-governed lands. If I remarked that 
climate, soil, manners of life, that mixture with 
other peoples had modified the blood, I saw, too, 
that in essentials the race was always one. The 
idea which in all the length of my travels has been 
at once my fellow and my guide— a key where- 
with to unlock the hidden things of strange new 
lands— is a conception, however imperfect, of the 
grandeur of our race, already girdling the earth, 
which it is destined, perhaps, eventually to over- 
spread. In America, the peoples of the world are 
being fused together, but they are run into an 
English mould : Alfred's laws and Chaucer's 
tongue are theirs whether they would or no. 
There are men who say that Britain, in her age. 
will claim the glory of having planted greater 
Englands across the seas. They fail to perceive 
that she has done more than found plantations of 
her own — that she has imposed her institutions 
upon the offshoots of Germany, of Ireland, of 
Scandinavia, and of Spain. Through America, 
England is speaking to the world.— Pre/ace to 
Greater Britain. 


While the Celtic men are pouring into New 
York, the New Englandersand New Yorkers, too, 


are moving. They are not dying. Facts are op- 
posed to this jwrtentous theory. They art' going 
West. The unrest of the Celt is mainlj- caused hy 
discontent with his country's present ; that of the 
Saxon by hope for liis private future. The Irish- 
man flies to New York because it lies away from 
Ireland ; the Englishman takes it upon his road 
to California. Where one race is dominant, im- 
migrantsof another blood soon lose their nation- 
ality. In New York and Boston tlie Irish con- 
tinue to be Celts, for these are Irish cities. In 
Pittsburgh, in Chicago, still more in the country 
districts, a few j'ears make the veriest Paddy 
English. On the other hand, the Saxons are dis- 
appearing from the Atlantic cities, as the Span- 
iards have gone from Mexico. The Irish here are 
beating down tlie English, as the English have 
crushed out the Dutch. The Hollander's descend- 
ants in New York are English now. It Inds fair 
that the Saxons should Ve Irish, . . The Puritans of 
New England are sprung from those of the " asso- 
ciated counties : " but the victors of Marston 
Moor maj' have been cousins to those no less sturdy 
Protestants — the Hollanders who defended Ley- 
den. It may be that they were our ancestors — 
those Dutchmen that we crowded out of New 
Amsterdam — the very place where we are sharing 
the fate we dealt. The fiery temper of the new- 
people of the American coast towns, their im- 
patience of free government, are better proofs of 
Celtic blood than are the color of their eyes and 
hea.vd.'—G^reater Britain, Part I., Chap. 4. 


Quebec Lower Town is very like St. Peter Port 
in Guernsey. Norman-French inhabitants, guard- 
ed by British troops, step-built streets, thronged 
fruit market, and citadel upon a rock, frowning 
down upon the quays, are alike in each. A slight 
knowledge of the Upper-Normandy patois is not 
without its use. There has been no dying-out of 
the race among the French-Canadians. They 
number twenty times the thousands that they did 
a hundred vears ago. The American soil has left 


their physical t^'pe, rehgion, language, laws, and 
liabits absolutely untouched. They herd together 
in their rambling villages, dance to the fiddle 
after mass on Sundays, as gaily as once did their 
Norman sires, and keep up their fleur-de-lys and 
the memory of Montcalm. More French than the 
French are the Lower-Canadian habitants. — 
Greater Britain, Part L, Ciiap. 6. 


" Where men grow tall, there will maize grow 
tall," is a good sound rule : Limestone makes 
both bone and straw. The Northwestern States, 
inhabited by the giant men, are the chosen home 
of the most useful and beautiful of phmts, the 
maize — in America called " corn.'' For hundreds 
of miles the railway ti-ack, protected not even bj- 
a fence or hedge, runs through the towering 
plants, which hide all prospects, save tliat of their 
own green pyramids. Maize feeils the people, it 
feeds tlie cattle and the hogs that they export to 
feed the cities of the East ; from it is made j'early, 
as an Ohio farmer told me, "whiskey enough to 
float the ark." Rice is not more the support of the 
Chinese than maize of the English in America. — 
Greater Britain, Part I., Chap. 7. 


It is strange how the Western country dwarfs 
the Eastern States. Buffalo is called a " Western 
City ; " yet from New York to Buffalo is only 350 
miles, and Buffalo is but 700 miles to the west of 
the most eastern point in all the United States. 
On the other hand, from Buffalo we can go 2,500 
miles westward Avithout quitting the United 
States. •' The West " is eight times as wide as the 
Atlantic States, and will soon be eight times as 

The conformation of North America is widely 
different to that of any other continent on the 
globe. In Europe the glaciers of the Alps oc- 
cupy the centre point, and shed the waters toward 
each of the surrounding seas ; confluence is almost 
unknown. So is it in Asia : there the Indus, 


flowing into the Arabian Gulf, the Oxus into the 
Sea of Aral, the Ganges into the Bay of Bengal, 
the Yangtse Kiang into the Pacitic.and the Yenesei 
into the Arctic Ocean, all take their rise in the 
central table-land. But in South America the 
mountains form a wall upon tiie west, whence the 
rivers flow eastward in parallel lines. In North 
America alone are there mountains on each coast, 
and a trough between, into which the rivers flow 
together, giving in a single valley 23.000 miles of 
navigable stream to be ploughed by steamships. 
The map proclaims the essential unity of North 
America. Political Geography might be a more 
interesting study than it has yet been made. — 
Greater Britain. Part I.. Chap. 9. 

"These Red Indians are not red," was our first 
cry when we saw tiie Utes in the streets of Den- 
ver. They had come into the town to be painted, 
a.s English ladies go to London to shop. When we 
met them with unpainted cheeks, we saw that 
their color was brown, copper, dirt — anything you 
please except red. . . . Low in stature, yellow- 
skinned, small-eyed, and Tartar-faced, the In- 
dians of the plains are a distinct people from the 
tall, hooked-nose warriors of the Eastern States. 
It is impossible to set eyes upon their women 
without being reminded of the dwarf skeletons 
found in the mounds of Missouri and Iowa : but, 
men or women, the Utes bear no [resemblance to 
the bright-eyed, graceful people with whom Penn 
traded and Standish fought. They are not less in- 
ferior in mind than in body. It was no Shoshone, 
no Ute, no Chej'enne, who called the rainbow the 
" heaven of flowers,*' the moon the "night queen," 
or the stars "God's eyes." The tribes of the 
plains are as deficient, too, in heroes as in poetry ; 
they have never even produced a general. Their 
mode of life, the natural features of the country 
in which they dwell, have nothing in them to sug- 
gest a reason for their debased condition. — Greater 
Britain, Parti., Chap. 11. 



Brigham's personal position is [1866] a strange 
one. He calls himself prophet, and declares that 
he has revelations from God himself ; but when 
you ask liim quietly what all tliis means, you will 
find that for prophet you must read political phi- 
losopher. He sees that a canal from Utah Lake 
to Salt Lake Valley would be of vast utility to the 
Church and People — that a new settlement is 
urgently required. He thinks about these things 
till they dominate in his mind, and take in his 
brain the shape of pliysical creations. He dreams 
of the canal, the city ; sees them before him in his 
waking moments. That which is so clearly for 
the good of God's people, becomes God's will. 
Next Sunday at the Tabernacle he steps to the 
front, and says : "God has spoken : He has said 
unto his prophet, ' Get thee up Bi-igham, and 
build me a cit}' in the fertile valley to the south, 
where there is water, where there are fish, where 
the sun is strong enough to ripen the cotton- 
plants, and give r-ximent as well as food to My 
saints on earth.' Bretliren willing to aid God's 
work should come to me before the Bishops' 
meeting." As the prophet takes his seat again 
and puts on his broad-brimmed hat, a hum of ap- 
plause runs round, and teams and barrows are 
freely promised. Sometimes the canal, the 
bridge, the city, may prove a failure — but this is 
not concealed ; the prophet's human tongue may 
blunder even when he is communicating holj' 
things. ''After all," Brigham said to me one day, 
" the highest inspiration is good sense — the know- 
ing what to do, and how to do it." . . . Erigham's 
head is that of a man who nowhere could be 
second. — Greater Britain, Part I., Chap. 14. 


It is said to be a peculiarity of the Chinese that 
they all look alike : no European, without he has 
dealings with them, can distinguish one Celestial 
from another. The same, however, may be said 
of the Sikhs, the Australian natives, of most 
colored races, in short. The points of difference 


wliicli distinguisli tlie yellow men, the red men, 
the black men with striiight hair, the negroes 
from any other race whatever, are so much more 
prominent than the minor distinctions between 
individuals, that individual characteristics are 
sunk and lost in the national distinctions. To the 
Chinese in turn all Europeans are alike ; but be- 
neath these obvious facts there lies a solid grain of 
truth. Men of similar habits of min<l and body 
are alike among ourselves in Europe. . . . Irish 
lalwrers — men who for the most part work hard, 
feed little, and leave their minds entireh- un- 
ploughed, are all alike. Chinamen, who all work 
hard, and work alike, who live alike, and who go 
further, and all tiiink alike, are. by a mere law of 
nature, indistinguishable one from the other. — 
Greater Britain, Part I., Chap. 23. 


In all history nothing can be found more digni- 
fied than the action of America upon the Monroe 
Doctrine. Since the principle was first laid down 
in words, in 1823, the national behavior has been 
courteous, consistent, firm ; and the language 
used now that America is all-powerful, is the 
same that her statesmen nuide use of during the 
rebellion, in the hour of her most instant peril. It 
will be hard forpolitical philosophers of the future 
to assert that a democratic republic can have no 
foreign policy. . . . Where the conqueror marries 
into the conquered race, it ends by l)eing absorbed ; 
and the mixed breed gradually becomes pure 
again in the type of the more numerous race. It 
would seem that the North American Continent 
■will soon be divided between the Saxon and the 
Aztec republics. . . . The French mission in 
Mexico was the making of that great country a 
further field for the Latin immigration ; and 
when the Calif ornians marched to Juarez's help, 
it was to save Mexico to North America. — Greater 
Britain. Part I., Chap. 25. 


The word " Squatter" has undergone a remark- 


able change of meaning since the time when it 
•lenoted those who stolo government land, and 
Imilt their dwellings upon it. As late as 1837 
Squatters were defined by the Chief Justi<'(> of 
New South Wales as people occupying I.inds with- 
out legal title, and who were subject to a line on 
discovery. Tiiey were described as living by bar- 
tering rum with convicts for stolen goods ; and as 
being themselves invariably convicts or "ex- 
pirees." Escaping suddenly from these low asso- 
ciations, the word came to be applied to graziers 
who drove their fl(^cks into the unsettled interior ; 
and thence to those of them who received leases 
from the Crown of pastoral lands. 

The squatter is the nabob of Melbourne and 
Sydney — the inexhaustible mine of wealth. He 
patronizes balls, promenade concents, flower- 
shows ; he is the mainstay of the great clubs, the 
joy of shopkeepers, the good angel of the hotels ; 
witliout him the opera could not be kept up, and 
the jockey-clubs would die a natural death. 

Neither squatters nor townsfolk will admit this 
view of the former's position is exactly correct. 
The squatters, the townsfolk sometimes say, may 
well set up to be a great laneled aristocracy, for 
they have everj- fault of a dominant caste except 
its generous vices. They are accused of piling up 
vast hordes of wealth, while living a most penuri- 
ous life, and contributing less than would so man\' 
mechanics to the revenue of the country, in order 
that they may return in later life to England, 
there to spend what they have wrung from the 
soil of Victoria or New South Wales. The occu- 
pation of tlie whole of the crown lands by squat- 
ters has prevented the making of railways to be 
paid for in land on the American system. But 
the chief of all the evils connected with squatting 
is the tendency to the accumulation in a few 
hands of all the land and all the pastoral wealth 
of the country— an extreme danger in the face of 
democratic institutions, such as those of Victoria 
and New South Wales. — Greater Britain, Part 
HI., Chap. 4. 



The countries ruled by a race whose very scum 
and outcasts have founded empires in every por- 
tion of the globe even now consist of 9,500,000 
square miles and contain a population of 300,000,- 
000 of people. Their surface is five times as great 
as that of the empire of Darius, and four and a 
half times as large as the Roman empire at its 
greatest extent. It is no exaggeration to say that 
in power the English countries would be more 
than a match for the remaining nations of the 
world. , . . No possible series of events can pre- 
vent the English i-ace itself, a century hence, from 
numbering 300,000,000 of human beings of one 
national character and one tongue. . . . The ul- 
timate future of any one section of our race is of 
little moment by the side of its triumph as a 
whole ; but the power of English laws and Eng- 
lish principles of government is not merely an 
English question. Its continuance is essential to 
the freedom of mankind. — Greater Britain, Part 
rv^, Chap. 23. 

DIMITRY, Charles, an American novelist 
and poet, born at Washington, D. C. , in 1838. 
He graduated at Georgetown College, and be- 
came connected with the periodical press, 
both in the North and the South. He has 
written the following novels : Guilty or Not 
Guilty (1864); Angela's Christmas (1S65); 
The Alderly Tragedy (1866); and The House 
in Balfour Street (1869») Among his poems 
is the following : 

[On the Departure of the Austrinnsfrom Venice, 1860.J 
Haste ! open the gate, Giulia, 

And wheel me my chair where the sun 
May fall on my face while I welcome 

The sound of the life-giving gun ! 
The Austrian leaves with tlie morning, 
And Venice hath freedom to day ! 
Yiva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva it Re ! 


Would God that I were only younger 
To stand with the rest on the street, 
To fling up my cap on the Mola, 

And the tricolor banner to greet ! 
The gondolas, girl — they are passing ; 
And what do the gondoliers say ? 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

Oh, cursed be these years, and this weakness, 

That shackle me here in my chair, 
When the people's loud clamor is rending 

The chains that once made them despair I 
So young when the Corsican sold us ! 
So old when the Furies repay ! — 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

Not these were the cries when our fathers 

The gonfalon gave to the breeze. 
When Doges sate solemn in council, 

And Dandolo harried the seas ! 
But the years of the future are ours, 
To humble the pride of the gray : — 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

Bring, girl, from your closet 

The sword that your ancestor bore 
When Genoa's pi'owess was humbled. 

Her galleys beat back from our shore ! 
O great Contareno ! your ashes 
To Fi'eedom are given to-day ! 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

What ! tears in your eyes, my Giulia ? 

You weep when your country is free ? 
You mourn for your Austrian lover, 

Whose face never more you shall see ? — 
Kneel, girl, beside me, and whisper. 
While to Heaven for vengeance you pray. 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 


Sliaine, shame on the weakness that held you, 

And shame on the lu>:irt that was won ! 
No lilood of the gonfalioniere 

Sliall mingle with the blood of the Htm ! 
Swear Iiate to the name (jf the spoiler ; 
Swear lealty to Venice, and say, 
Viva I Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

Hark ! heard you the gun from the Mela I 

And lu'ar j'ou the welcoming cheer ! 
Our army is coming, Giulia ; 

The friends of our Venice are near ! — 
Ring out from your old Campanile, 
iYeed bells from San Marco, to-day. 
Viva ! Evivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re ! 

DIMOND, William, an English dramatist 
and poet, born in 1780, died about 1814. His 
father was patentee of the Theatre Royal at 
Bath. The son received a good education, 
and was entered a student of the Inner Tem- 
ple, with a view to the legal profession. He 
wrote several dramatic pieces, the latest of 
which, The Foundling of the Forest, was 
brought out in 1809. He also put forth a 
little volume entitled Petrarchal Sonnets. 
One poem, The Mariner's Dream, preserves 
his memory. 

THE mariner's dream, 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, 
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the 
wind ; 

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home — of his dear native 

bowers — 

And pleasiires that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gayly covered with 


And restored evervrose, but secreted each thorn. 


Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise : — 

Now far, far behind him tlie green waters glide. 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes ; 

The jessamine clambers, in flower, o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in 
the wall ; 

All trembling with transport he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father l^nds o'er him with looks of delight ; 
His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm 
tear ; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 
Joy quickens his pulses ; his hardships seem 
o'er ; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his 
rest : — 
"O God! thou hast blest me; I ask for no 

Ah ! whence is that flame that now glares on his 
Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on 
his ear ? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the 
sky ! 
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the 
deck ; 
Amazement confronts him with images dire : 
Wild winds and mad weaves drive the vessel 
a-wreck ; 
The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on 
fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save ; 


Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er 
the wave. 

O sailor-boy ! woe to thy dream of deHght ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss : 
Where ^now is the picture that Fancy touched 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed 

O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 

Or redeem form or fame from the merciless 

surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding 

sheet he, 

And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall 
grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roU ; 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye : — 
O sailor-boy I sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul ! 

DISRAELI, Benjamin (created Earl of 
Beaconsfield, in 1877), au English statesman 
and author, born December 21, 1805, died 
April 19, 1881. He was the eldest son of 
Isaac Disraeli. After receiving a private edu- 
cation, he was placed in a solicitor's office, 
but he preferred literature to law, and in 
1826-27 produced a novel. Vivian Grey. 
which was well received in England, and was 


translated into several languages. The Voy- 
age of Captain Pompanilla, a flimsy satire, 
followed in 1828. The youug author then 
traveled "for two years iji Europe, Syria, and 
Egypt. On his return he published The 
Young Duke (1831), and Contarini Fleming 
(1852), the latter of which was highly praised 
by Heine, Goethe, and Beckford. An Orient- 
al romance, The Wondrous Tale of Alroy, 
another The Rise of Iskaiider, and Ixion in 
Heaven, were published in 1833. Tlie Revo- 
lutionary Epic (1834), in which the Genius 
of Feudalism and the Genius of Feder- 
alism plead their cause before the throne 
of Demogorgon, and several political pam- 
phlets, among them a Vindication of the Eng- 
lish Constitution, followed. A series of polit- 
ical letters in the London Times, under the 
signature of " Runny niede," and a novel, 
Henrietta Temple, appeard in 1836, and Ve7i- 
etia, an attempt to portray the characters of 
Byron and Shelley, in 1837. 

Disraeli had made several efforts to enter 
Parliament. He was now successful as a 
representative of the borough of Maidstone. 
His first speech in the House of Commons 
was received Avith shouts of laughter. The 
clamor compelled him to sit down ; but be- 
fore he did so, he said : ' ' I have begun several 
times many things, and have succeeded at 
last. I will sit down now, but the time will 
come when you icill hear me.'' A tx-agedy, Al- 
caros (1839), was his next literary effort, in 
this year he married the wealthy widoAv of Mr. 
Wyndham Lewis. Coningsby (1844), and Si- 
byl, or the Tivo Nations (184:5), two semi-polit- 
ical novels, are intended to portray the pub- 
lic men of the time, and the English people 
during the Chartist agitation. Tancred, or 
the Neic Crusade (1847), takes its hero to the 
Holy Land, relates his adventures and records 


his soliloquies and conversations. Disraeli was 
now recognized as a leader in the House of 
Commons. His reputtition as a speaker was 
established by his attacks oji the free-trade 
policy of Sir Robei-t Peel. He whs immersed 
in politics. His only literary productions 
for many years were the Life of Isaac Dis- 
raeli (1849). and Lord George Bentinck ; apo- 
litical Bio(jraj)hi/ (1862). In this year he was 
made Chancellor of the Exchequer, which 
office he again held in 1858 and in 1865. He 
was the chief supporter of the Reform Bill of 
1867, extending suffrage to the rural popula- 
tion. In 1868 he became Prime Minister, and 
was offei-ed a peerage. This he declined for 
himself, but accepted for his wife, who was 
made Viscountess of Beaconsfield. He now 
reappeared as a novelist, in Lothair (1870), 
which had an enormous circulation. In 1874 
he again became Prime Minister, and in 1877 
took his seat in the House of Lords, as Earl 
of Beaconsfield. An(jther novel, Endymion, 
published in 1880, was his last literary work. 

alroy's vision of the kings. 
In this wise they proceeded for a few minutes, 
until they entered a beautiful and moonlit lake. 
In the distance was a mountainous country. . . . 
At length the boat reached the opposite shore of 
the lake, and the Prince of the Capti%uty disem- 
barked. He disembarked at the head of an 
avenue of colossal lions of red granite, which ex- 
tended far as the eye could reach, and which as- 
cended the side of the mountain, which was cut 
into a flight of magnificent steps. The easy as- 
cent was in consequence soon accomplished, and 
ALroy, proceeding along the avenue of lions, soon 
gained the summit of the mountain. To his in- 
finite astonishment, he beheld Jerusalem. That 
strongly marked locality could not be mistaken : 
at his feet were Jehoshaphat. Kedron, Siloa : he 
stood upon Olivet : before him was Sion. But in 
all other respects, hgw different was the landscape 


to the one he had gazed upon a few days back, 
for the first time ! Tlie surrounding hills sparkled 
with vineyards, and glowed with summer palaces, 
and voluptuous pavilions, and glorious gaixlens 
of pleasure. The cit\-, extending all over Mount 
Sion, was encompassed with a wall of white 
marble, with battlements of gold, a gorgeous mass 
of gates and pillars, and gardened terraces, lofty 
piles of rarest materials, cedar, and ivory, and 
precious stones, and costly columns of the richest 
workmanship, and the most fanciful orders, capi- 
tals of the lotiis and the palm, and flowing friezes 
of tlie olive and the vine. And in the front a 
mighty temple rose, with inspiration in its verj' 
form — a temple so vast, so sumptuous, there re- 
quired no priest to tell us that no human hand 
planded that sublime magnificence I 

'"God of my fathers " said Alroy, "I am a 
poor, weak thing, and my life has been a life of 
dreams and visions, and I have sometimes thouglit 
my brain lacked a sufficient master. Where am 
I ? Do I sleep or live ? Am I a slu m berer or a 
ghost ? This trial is too much." 

He sank down and hid his face in his hands : 
his over-exerted mind appeared to deseit him ; he 
wept hj-sterically. Manj^ minutes elapsed before 
Alroy became composed. His wild bursts of 
weeping sank into sobs, and the sobs died off into 
sighs. And at length, calm from exhaustion, he 
again looked up, and lo ! the glorious city was no 
more ! Before him was a moonlit plain, over 
wlvich the avenue of lions still advanced, and ap- 
peared to terminate only in the mountainous 
distance. This limit, the Prince of the Captivity 
at length reached, and stood before a stupendous 
portal, cut out of the solid rock, four hundred feet 
in height, and supported by clusters of colossal 
caiyatides. Upon the portals were engraven some 
Hebrew characters, which, upon examination, 
proved to be the same as those upon the talisman 
of Jabaster. 

And so. taking from his bosom that all-precious 
and long-cherished deposit, David Alroy. in obedi- 
ence to his insti'uctions, pressed the signet against 


the gigantic portal. The portal opened with a 
crash of thunder louder than an earthquake. 
Pale, panting, and staggering, the Prince of the 
Captivity entered an illimitable hall, illumined by 
pendulous and .stupendous balls of glowing metal. 
On each side of the hall, sitting on golden thrones, 
was ranged a line of kings, and as the pilgrim en- 
tered, the monarchs rose, and took off their dia- 
dems, and waved them thrice, and thrice repeated, 
in solemn chorus. '• All liail, Alroy I Hail to thee, 
brother king. Thy crown awaits thee I " 

The Prince of the Captivity stood trembling, 
with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and leaning 
breathless against a column. And when at length 
he had recovered himself and dared again to look 
up, he found the monarchs were reseated ; and 
from their still and vacant visages, apparfutly un- 
conscious of his i)re.sence. And this emboldened 
him, and so staring alternately at each side of the 
hall, but with a firm, perhaps desperate step, Al- 
roj- advanced. And he came to two thrones 
which were set apart from the others in Uie mid- 
dle of the hall. On one was seated a noble figure, 
far above the common stature, with arms folded 
and downcast eyes. His feet rested upon a broken 
sword, and a shivered sceptre, which told he was 
a monarch, in spite of his discrowned head. And 
on the opposite throne was a venerable personage, 
with a long flowing beard, and dressed in white 
raiment. His countenance was beautiful, al- 
though ancient. Age had stole on without its 
imperfections, and time had only invested it with 
a sweet dignity and solemir grace. Tlie counte- 
nance of the king was uprai.sed with a seraphic 
gaze, and as he thus looked up on high, with eyes 
full of love and thanksgiving, and praise, his con- 
secrated fingers seemed to touch the trembling 
wires of a golden harp. 

And further on, and far above the rest, upon a 
tlirone that stretched across the hall, a most im- 
perial presence straightway flashed upon the start- 
led vision of Alroy. Fifty steps of ivory, and 
each step guarded by golden lions, led to .i throne 
of jasper. A dazzling light blazed forth from the 


glittering diadem and radiant countenance of him 
who sat iipon the throne — one beautiful as a 
woman, but with the majesty of a god. And in 
one hand he held a seal, and in the other a sceptre. 
And when Alroy had reached the foot of the 
throne, he stopped, and his heart misgave him. 
And he prayed for some minutes in silent devo- 
tion, and without daring to look up, he mounted 
tlie first step of the tlirone, and the second, and 
the third, and so on, with slow and faltering feet, 
until he reached the forty-ninth step. The Prince 
of the Captivity raised his eyes. He stood before 
the monarch face to face. In vain Alroy attempt- 
ed to attract his attention, or to fix his gaze. The 
large black eyes, full of supernatural lustre, ap- 
peared capable of piercing all things, and illumi- 
nating all things : but they flashed on without 
shedding a ray upon Alroy. Pale as a spectre, 
the pilgrim, whose pilgrimage seemed now on the 
point of completion, stood cold and trembling be- 
fore the object of all his desires and all his labors. 
But he thought of his Country, his People, and 
his God, and vvliile his noiseless lips breathed the 
ndme of Jehovah, solemnly he put forth his arm, 
and with a gentle firmness grasped the unresisting 
sceptre of his great ancestor. And as he seized 
it, the whole scene vanished from his sight. 

Hours or years might have passed away as fai 
as the sufferer was concerned, when Alroy agairi 
returned to self -consciousness. His eyes slowlj 
opened, he cast round a vacant stare, he was lying 
in the cave of Gethsemena. The moon had set, but 
the morn had not broken. A single star glittered 
over the brow of the black mountains. He faint- 
ly moved his limbs, he would have raised his hand 
to his bewildered brain, but found that it grasped 
a sceptre. The memory of the past returned to 
him. He tried to rise, and found that he was 
reposing in the arms of a human being. He turn- 
ed his head — he met the anxiou s gaze of Jabaster '. 
— Alroy. 


If I were to assign the particular qualit\ whict 


conduces to that dreamy and voluptuous exist- 
ence which men of high imagination experience 
in Venice, I should describe it as the feeling of 
abstraction, which is remarkable in that city, and 
peculiar to it. Venice is the only city which can 
yield the magical delights of solitude. All is still 
and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries : 
fancy, therefore, is not put to flight. No rude 
soiuid distracts your self-consciousness. This 
renders existence intense. We feel everything. 
And we feel this keenh' in a cit}' not only emi- 
nently l)eautiful, not only abounding in wonderful 
creations of art. but each step of whicli is hallow- 
ed ground, quick with associations, that in their 
more various nature, their nearer relation to our- 
selves, and perhaps their more picturesque char- 
acter, exercise a greater influence over the imagi- 
nation than the more antique story of Greece and 
Rome. We feel all this in a city too, which, 
although her lustre be indeed dimmed, can still 
count among her daughters maidens fairer than 
the orient pearls with which lier warriors once 
loved to deck them. Poetry, Tradition, and Love 
— these are the Graces that have invested with an 
ever-charming cestus this Aphrodite of cities. — 
Contarini Fleming. 


A country of promontories, and gulfs, and 
islands clustering in an azure sea, a country of 
wooded vales and purple mountains, wherein the 
cities are built on plains, covered with olive-woods, 
and at the base of an Acropolis, crowned with a 
temple or a tower. And there are quarries of 
white marble, and vines, and much wild honey. 
And wherever you move is some fair and elegant 
memorial of the poetic past, a lone pillar on the 
green and silent j>lain once echoing with the tri- 
umphal shouts of sacred games, the tomb of a 
hero, or the fane of a god. Clear is the sky, and 
fragrant is the air, and, at all seasons, the magical 
scenery of this land is crolored with that mellow 
tint, and invested with that pensive character, 
which, in other countries, we conceive to be pecu- 


liar to autumn, and which beautifully associate 
with the recollections of the past. Enchanting 
(Jreece ! . . . 

1 quittt'tl tlie ^loroa without regret. It is 
covered with V'enetiaii nieiuurials ; no more to me 
a source of joy, und bringing back to my memory 
a country on whicli I no longer loved to dwell. I 
cast anchor in a small but secure harbor. I 
landed. I climbed a hill. From it I looked over a 
vast plain, covered with olive-woods, and skirted 
by mountains. Some isolated hills, of every pic- 
tiuesque form, rose in the plain at a distance from 
tlie terminating range. On one of these I beheld 
a magnilicent temple bathed in the sunset. At 
the foot of tiie ci'aggy steep on whicli it rested was 
a walled city of considerable dimensions, in front 
of which rose a Doric temple of exquisite propor- 
tion, and apparently uninjured. The violet sun- 
set threw over this scene a coloring becoming its 
loveliness, and, if possible, increasing its refined 
character. Independent of all associations, it was 
the most beautiful spectacle that had ever passed 
before a vision alwajs nmsing on sweet sights ; 
yet I could not forget that it was the bright capi- 
tal of my youthful dreams, the fragrant city of 
the violet crown, the fair, the sparkling, the 
delicate Athens \—Contarini Fleming. 


The broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount 
Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of 
Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters 
of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jelioshaphat. 
Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite 
city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty 
wall, with turrets and towers and frequent gates, 
undulates w-ith the unequal ground which it cov- 
ers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It 
is a city of hills far more famous than those of 
Rome ; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Cal- 
vary, while the Ai-ab and the Assyrian, and the 
tribes and nations beyond, are as ignorant of the 
Capitoline and Aventine Mounts as they are of 
the Malvern or tlie Chiltern Hills. 


The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tow- 
er of David ; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the 
gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, 
alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's 
chosen one ; close to its cedars and its cypresses, 
its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls 
upon Bethesda's pool ; further on, entei'ed by the 
gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon 
of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a 
long winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that 
now covers Calvary — called the Street of Grief, 
because there the most illustrious of the human, 
as well as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of 
King David, and tlie divine son of the most favor- 
ed of women, twice sank under that burden of suf- 
fering and shame which is now throughout all 
Christendom the emblem of triumph and of hon- 
or. Passing over groups and masses of houses 
built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted 
with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, 
where Melchisedek built his mystic citadel ; and 
still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed 
upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. 
Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Ju- 
dea has in turn subverted the fanes which were 
raised to his father and to himself in their impe- 
rial capital ; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, 
and of Jacob is now worshipped before every 
altar in Rome. 

Jerusalem by moonlight ! 'Tis a fine spectacle, 
apart from all its indissoluble associations of awe 
and beauty. The mitigating hour softens the 
austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent in 
outline, however harsh and severe in detail ; and, 
while it retains all its sublimity, removes much of 
the savage sternness of the strange and unrivalled 
scene. A fortified city, almost surrounded by 
ravines, and rising in the centre of chains of far- 
spreading hills, occasionally offering, through 
their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and 
richer land ! 

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, 
and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright 
over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness 


is broken by a breeze, that seems to have traveled 
over the plains of Sharon from the sea. It wails 
among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress 
groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if 
it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has 
traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? 

Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourn- 
ing over the city that they could not save ? Their 
spirits surely would linger on the land where their 
Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose im- 
pending fall Omnipotence had shed human tears, 
from this mount ! Who can but believe that, at 
the midnight hour, from the summit of the As- 
cension, the great departed of Israel assemble to 
gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city ! 
There might be counted heroes and sages, who 
need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest 
and wisest of other lands ; but the lawgiver of the 
time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; 
the monarch, whose reign has ceased for three 
thousand years, but whose wisdoxn is a proverb in 
all nations of the earth ; the teacher, whose doc- 
trines have modelled civilized Europe — the great- 
est of legislators, the greatest of administrators, 
and the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct 
or living, can produce three such men as these ! 

The last light is extinguished in the village of 
Bethany. The wailing breeze has become a moan- 
ing wind ; a white film spreads over tlie purple 
skj' ; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid ; all be- 
comes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the 
vaUey of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merg- 
es into obscurity ; no longer glitter the minarets 
of the mosque of Omar ; Bethesda's angelic waters, 
the gate of Stephen, the street of sa(a-ed sorrow, 
the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no 
longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing dark- 
ness, while the very line of the walls gradually 
eludes the eye, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre 
is a beacon light. 

And why is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre a 
beacon light? Why, when it is already past the 
noon of darkness, when every soul slumbers in 
Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep re- 


pose except the liowl of the wild dog crying to the 
wilder wind — why is the cupohi of the sanctuary 
illumined, though the hour has long since been 
nuuilwred. when pilgrims there kneel and monks 
pray 't 

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the 
court of the church ; withiu the church itself, two 
brethren of the convent of Terra Santa keep holy 
watch and ward : while, at the tomb beneath, 
there kneels a solitary youth, who prostrated him- 
self at sunset, and who will there pass unmoved 
the whole of the saci-ed night. Yet the pilgrim is 
not in communion with the Latin Church ; neither 
is lie of the Church Armenian, or the Church 
Greek ; Mai'onite, Coptic, or Abyssinian — these 
also are Christian Churches which cannot call 
him child. 

He comes from a distant and a northern isle to 
bow before the tomb of a descendant of the kings 
of Israel, because he, in common with all the 
people of that isle, recognizes in that sublime He- 
brew incarnation the presence of a Divine Redeem- 
er. Then why does he come alone? It is not that 
he has availed himself of the inventions of mod- 
ern science, to repair first to a spot, which all his 
countrymen may equally desire to visit, and thus 
anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the in- 
ventions of modern science, all his countrymen 
used to flock hither. Then why do they not now? 
Is the Holy Land no longer hallowed ? Is it not 
the land of sacred and mysterious truths? The 
land of heavenly messages and earthly miracles? 
The land of prophets and apostles ? Is it not the 
land upon whose mountains the Creator of the 
Universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of 
whose anointed race He mysticallj' assumed, 
when He struck the last blow at the powers of 
evil ? Is it to be believed that there are no pecu- 
liar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, 
which distinguish it from all otliers — that Pales- 
tine is like Normandy or Yorkshire, or even Attica 
or Rome ? 

There may be some who maintain this ; there 
have been some, and those, too, among the wisest 


and the wittiest of tlie nortliern and western 
races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy 
of the long predominance of that oriental intellect 
to wliicli they owed their civilization, would have 
persuaded themselves and the world that the tra- 
ditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a 
century ago. Eui-ope made a violent and appar- 
ently successful effort to disembarrass itself of its 
Asian faitli. Tlie most powerful and the most 
civilized of its kingdoms, about to conqvier the 
rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, 
massacred and persecuted their sacred servants, 
and aimounced that the Hebrew creeds which Si- 
mon Peter brought from Palestine, and whicli his 
successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and 
a fiction. What has been the result ? In every 
city, town, village, and liamlet of that great king- 
dom, the divine image of the most illustrious of 
Hebrews has been again raised anud the homage 
of kneeling millions : while, in the heart of its 
bright and witty capital, the nation has erected 
the most gorgeous of modern temples, and conse- 
ci'ated its marble and golden walls to the name, 
and memory, and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew 

The country of which the solitary pilgrim, 
kneeling at this moment at the Holy Sepulclu-e, 
was a native, had not actively shared in that in- 
surrection against the first and second Testament 
which distinguished the end of the eighteenth 
century. But more than six hundred years be- 
fore, it had sent its king, and the flower of its 
peers and people, to rescue Jerusalem from those 
whom they considered infidels I and now. instead 
of the third crusade, they expend their superfluous 
energies in the construction of raih-oads. 

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusa- 
lem, on which such vast treasure, such prodigies 
of valor, and such ardent belief had been wasted, 
has been one of those cii-cunistances which liave 
tended to disturb the faith of Europe, althotxgh it 
should have carried convictions of a very different 
character. The Crusaders looked upon the Sara- 
cens as infidels, whereas the children of the Desert 


bore a mucli nearer affinity to the sacred corpse 
that had, foi- a brief space, consecrated the Holy 
Sepulchre, than any of the invading host of Eu- 
rope. The same bh)od flowed in their veins, and 
they recognized the divine missions both of Moses 
and of his greater successor. In an age so defi- 
cient in physiological learning as the twelfth cen- 
tury, the mysteries of race were unknown. Jeru- 
salem, it cannot be doubted, will ever remain the 
appanage either of Israel or of Ishmael ; and if, in 
the course of those great vicissitudes which are no 
doubt impending for the East, there be any at- 
tempt to place upon the throne of David a prince 
of the House of Cobui-g or Deuxponts. the same 
fate will doubtless await him. as, with all their 
brilliant qualities and all the sympathj- of Europe, 
was the final do<im of the Godfreys, the Baldwins, 
and the Lusignans. — Tancred. 


Mr. Phoebus was the most successful, not to say 
the most eminent, painter of the age. He was the 
descendant of a noljle family of Gascony that had 
emigrated to England from France in the reign of 
Louis XIV. Unquestionably they had mixed their 
blood frequently during the interval and the 
A-icissitudes of their various life ; but in Gaston 
Phoebus. Nature, as is sometimes her wont, had 
chosen to reproduce exactlj' the original type. He 
■svas the Gascon noble of the sixteenth century, 
with all his brilliancy, bravery, and boastfulness, 
equally vain, arrogant and eccentric, accom- 
plished in all the daring or the graceful pursuits 
of man, yet nursed in the philosophy of our times. 

''It is presumption in my talking about such 
things," said Lothair : "but might I venture to 
ask what you may consider the true principles of 

''Aryan principles." said Mr. Phoebus: "not 
merely the study of Nature, but of beautiful 
Nature ; the art of design in a country inhabited 
by a first-rate race, and where the laws, the man- 
ners, the customs, are calculated to maintain the 
health and beauty of a first-rate race. In a greater 


or less degree, these conditions obtained from the 
age of Pericles to the age of Hadrian in pure 
Aryan cocimunities ; but Semitism began then to 
prevail, and ultimately triumphed. Semitism has 
destroyed Art ; it taught man to despise his own 
body, and the essence of art is to honor the human 

" I am afraid I ought not to talk about such 
things," said Lothair. "'but, if by Semitism you 
mean religion, surely the Italian painters, in- 
spired by Semitism, did something." 

"Great things," said Mr. Phoebus — "some of 
the greatest. Semitism gave them subjects, but 
the Renaissance gave them Aryan art, and it gave 
that art to a purely Aryan race. But Semitism 
rallied in the shape of the Reformation, and swept 
all away. When Leo the Tenth was pope, popery 
was pagan ; popery is now Christian, and Art is 

" I cannot enter into such controversies," said 
Lothair. " Every day I feel more and more I am 
extremely ignorant." 

" Do not regret it," said Mr. Phoebus. " What 
you call ignorance is your strength. By igno- 
rance you mean a want of knowledge of books. 
Books are fatal ; they are the curse of the human 
race. Nine-tenths of existing books are nonsense, 
and the clever books are the refutation of that 
nonsense. The greatest misfortune that ever be- 
fell man was the invention of printing. Printing 
has destroyed education. Art is a great thing, 
and Science is a great tiling ; but all that Art and 
Science can reveal can be taught by man and by 
his attributes — his voice, his hand, his eye. The 
essence of education is the education of the body. 
Beauty and health are the chief sources of happi- 
ness. Men should live'^in the air ; their exercises 
should be regular, varied, scientific. To render 
his body strong and supple is the first duty of 
man. He should develop and completely master 
the whole muscular system. What I admire in 
the order to which you belong is that they do live 
in the air ; that they excel in athletic sports : that 
they can only speak one language ; and that they 


never read. This is not a complete education, 
but it is the highest education since the Greek." 

" What you say I feel encouraging/' said Lo- 
thair, repressing a smile, " for I myself live very 
much in the air, and am fond of all sports ; but I 
confess I am often ashamed of being so poor a 
linguist, and was seriously thinking that I ought 
to read." 

' ' No doubt every man should combine an intel- 
lectual with a physical training,'' replied Mr. 
Phoebus ; " but the popular conception of the 
means is radically wrong. Youth should attend 
lectures on art and science by the most illustrious 
professors, and should converse together after- 
ward on what they have heard. They should learn 
to talk ; it is a rare accomplishment, and ex- 
tremely healthy. Thej' should have music always 
at their meals. The theatre, entirely remodelled 
and reformed, and under a minister of state, 
should he an important element of education. I 
should not object to the recitation of lyric poetry. 
That is enough. I would not have a book in the 
house, or even see a newspaper." 

" These are Aryan principles?" sai<l Lothair. 

"They are," said Mr. Phoebus; '"and of such 
principles I believe a great revival is at hand. We 
shall both live to see another Renaissance." — 

DISRAELI, Isaac, an English author, born 
in 1766, died in 1848. His father, a Venetian, 
vfhose Hebrew ancestors, refugees from Span- 
ish persecution, had assumed the name of 
Disraeli to distinguish their race, removed 
to England in 1748. Isaac was intended for 
commercial pursuits, and he was sent to a 
coUege at Amsterdam, from which he return- 
ed at the age of eighteen, prepared to publish 
a poem against commerce. His parents then 
sent him to travel in France, with the hope 
that mingling with the world might divert 
his mind from the pursuit of literature. He 
spent much of the time in libraries and with lit- 



erary men, and on his return in 1788, publish- 
ed a satire, On the Abuse of Satire. Through 
the influence of Mr. Pye, afterwards poet- 
laureate, the elder Disraeli was pei'suaded to 
cease opposmg the literarj' ttxstes of his son, 
who, in 1790, produced a Defence of Poetry, 
of which he afterwards destroyed all the 
copies he could obtain. In 1791-93 he pub- 
lished The Curiosities of Literature, in four 
volumes, to which he afterwards added (1817) 
another volume. Miscellanies, or Literary 
Recreations appeared in 1796. This work was 
followed by Vaurien, or Sketches of the 
Times (1797), Romances, a volume of prose 
tales (1799), Narrative Poems (1803), Flim- 
Flams, or the Life and Errors of my Uncle 
and the Amours of my Aunt (1805), Despot- 
ism, or the Fall of the Jesuits, a novel (1811), 
The Calamities of Authors (1814), The Quar- 
rels of Authors (1814), and The Literary 
Character, or the History of Men of Genius 
(1816). The Life and Reign of Charles I. , 
(1828-31), gained for him from Oxford the de- 
gree of D.C.L. He had long intended to 
write a history of English Literature, but a 
paralysis of the optic nerve prevented the ac- 
complishment of this design. A selection 
from his manuscripts preparatory to this 
work was published in 1841 under the title of 
The Amenities of Literature. 


Never was a philosophical imagination more 
beautiful than that exquisite Palingenesis, as it 
has been termed from the Greek, or a re-genera- 
tion : or rather, the apparitions of animals, and 
plants. Schott, Kircher, Gaflfarel, Borelli, Digby, 
and the whole of that admirable school, discover- 
ed in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, 
which were again raised up by the force of heat. 
Nothing, they say, perishes in nature ; all is but a 
continuation, or a revival. The semina of resur- 


rection are concealed in extinct bodies, as in the 
blood of man ; the ashes of roses will again revive 
into roses, though smaller and paler than if thej' 
had been planted ; unsubstantial and unodorifer- 
ous, tliey are not roses wliich gro\v on rose-trees, 
but their delicate apparitions ; and like appai'i- 
tions, they are seen but for a moment ! The pro- 
cess of the Palingeyicsis, this picture of immortal- 
ity, is described. These philosophers having burnt 
a flower, by calcination disengaged the salts from 
its ashes, and deposited them in a glass phial ; a 
chemical mixture acted on it, till in the fermenta- 
tion they assumed a bluish and a spectral hue. 
This dust, thus excited by heat, shoots upward into 
its primitive forms ; by sympathy the parts unite, 
and while each is returning to its destined place, 
we see distinctly the stalk, the leaves, and the flow- 
er arise ; it is the pale spectre of a flower coming 
slowly forth from its ashes. The heat passes away, 
the magical scene declines, till the whole matter 
again precipitates itself into the chaos at the bot- 
tom. This vegetable phoenix lies thus concealed 
in its cold ashes, till the presence of heat produces 
this resurrection — in its absence it returns to its 
death. — CuHosities of Literature. 


It is, however, only in solitude that the genius 
of eminent men has been formed. There their 
first thoughts sprang, and there it will become 
them to find their last : for the solitude of old age 
— and old age must be often in solitude — may be 
found the happiest with th3 literary character. 
Solitude is the nurse of enthusiasm, and enthusi- 
asm is the true parent of genius. In all ages soli- 
tude has been called for, has been flown to. No 
considerable work was ever composed, till its au- 
thor, like an ancient magician, first retired to the 
grove, or to the closet, to invocate. When genius 
languishes in an irksome solitude among crowds 
— that is the moment to fly into seclusion and 
meditation. There is a society in the deepest sol- 
itude ; in all the men of genius of the past 
" First of your kind, Society divine 1 " 


and in themselves ; for there only can they in- 
dulge in the romances of their soul, and there only 
can they occupy themselves in their dreams and 
their vigils, and, with the morning, fly without in- 
terruption to the labor they had reluctantly 
quitted. If there be not jjeriods when they shall 
allow their days to melt harmoniously into 
each other, if they do not pass Avhole weeks to- 
gether in their study, without intervening ab- 
sences, they will not be admitted into the last re- 
cess ol the Muses. Whether their glory comes 
from researches, or from enthusiasm. Time, with 
not a feather ruffled on his wings, Time alone 
opens discoveries and kindles meditation, This 
desert of solitude, so vast and so dreary to the 
man of the world, to the man of genius is the mag- 
ical garden of Armida, whose enchantments arose 
amidst solitude, while solitude was everywhere 
among those enchantments. 

Whenever Michael Angelo, that " divine mad- 
man," as Richardson once wrote on the back of 
one of his drawings, was meditating on some 
great design, he closed himself up from the world. 
"Why do you lead so solitary a life?" asked a 
friend. *• Art," replied the sublime artist, "Art 
is a jealous god ; it requires the whole and entire 
man." During his mighty labor in the Sistine 
Chapel, he refused to have any communication 
with any person even at his own house. Such 
undisturbed and solitary attention is demanded 
even by undoubted genius as the price of perform- 
ance. How then shall we deem of that feebler 
race who exult in occasional excellence, and who 
so often deceive themselves by mistaking the 
evanescent flashes of genius for that holier flame 
which burns on its altar, because the fuel is in- 
cessantly applied. 

We observe men of genius, in public situations, 
sighing for this solitude. Amidst the impedi- 
ments of the world, they are doomed to view their 
intellectual banquet often rising before them like 
some fairy delusion, never to taste it. 

The great Veruiam often complained of the dis- 
turbances of his public life, and rejoiced in the 


occasional retirement he stole from public affairs. 
" And now, because I ani in the country, I will 
send you some of my country fruits, which with 
me are good meditations : when I am in the city, 
thej^ are choked with business."' 

Lord Clarendon, whose life so happily com- 
bined the contemplative with the active powers 
of man, dwells on three periods of retirement 
which he enjoyed ; he always took pleasure in re- 
lating the great tranquillity of spirit experienced 
during liis solitude at Jersey, where, for moi'e than 
two years, employed on his History, he daily 
wrote "one sheet of large paper with his own 
hand." At the close of his life, his literary labors 
in his other retirements are detailed with a proud 
satisfaction. Each of his solitudes occasioned a 
new acquisition ; to one he owed the Spanish, to 
another the French, and to a third the Italian 
literature. The public are not yet acquainted with 
the fertility of Lord Clarendon's literary labors. 

It was not vanity that induced Scipio to declare 
of solitude, that it had no loneliness for him, since 
he voluntarily retired amidst a glorious life to his 
Linternum. Cicero was uneasy amid applauding 
Rome, and has distinguished his numerous works 
by the titles of his various villas. Aulus Gellius 
marked his solitude by his Attic Nights. The 
Golden Grove of Jeremy Taylor is the produce of 
his retreat at the Earl of Carberry's seat in Wales ; 
and the Divemions of Purley preserved a man of 
genius for posterity. 

Voltaire had talents, well adapted for society ; 
but at one period of his life he passed five years in 
the most secret seclusiun, and indeed usually 
lived in retirement. Montesquieu quitted the 
brilliant circles of Paris for his books and his 
meditations, and was x-idiculed by the gay triflers 
he deserted ; "but my great Avork," he observes 
in triumph, '' avaneedpasdegeant.''' Harrington, 
to compose his Oceana, severed himself from the 
society of his friends. Descartes, inflamed by 
genius, hires an obscure house in an unfrequented 
quarter at Paris, and there he passes two years 
unknown to his acquaintance. Adam Smith, 


after the publication of his first work, withdrew 
into a retirement that lasted ten j-ears : even 
Hume rallies him for separating himself from the 
world ; but by this means the great political in- 
quirer satisfied the world by his great work. And 
thus it was with men of genius, long ere Petrarch 
withdrew to his Valchiusa. — The Literary Char- 

DIX, John Adams, an American statesman 
and author, born at Boscawen, N. H., July 
24, 1798, died at New York, April 21, 1879. 
He entered the Military Academy at West 
Point in 1812, but near the close of the follow- 
ing year he resigned the appointment in 
order to become an ensign in the army, and 
served on the northern frontier during the re- 
mainder of the war with Great Britain. He 
left the army in 1828, having risen to the 
rank of captain of artillery. He then travel- 
ed in Europe for a year ; and in 1830 entered 
upon the practice of law at Cooperstown, 
N. Y. From 1833 to 1839 he was Secretary 
of State in New York. In 1845 he succeeded 
Silas Wright in the United States Senate, and 
was succeeded in 1849 by Mr. Seward. In 
1861, near the close of the administration of 
Mr. Buchanan, he was appointed Secretary 
of the Treasury. As such he issued the order 
to the commanding officer at New Orleans, 
' ' If any man attempts to haul down the 
American flag, shoot him on the spot." 
Among the early acts of President Lincoln 
was the appointment of Mr. Dix as a major- 
general in the army. He was not engaged in 
active operations in the field ; but he held in 
succession the command of the military de- 
partments of Maryland, of Virginia and 
North Carolina, and of New York. He was 
in command of this last department at the 
time of the draft-riots in July, 1863. In 1866- 
69 he was Minister to France ; and in 1872 was 


elected Governor of New York. He held, 
from time to time, many other important 
civil positions. He wrote a treatise on The 
Resources of the City of Neio York (1827); 
Decisions of the Superintendent of Common 
Schools of Keio York (1837J ; A Winter in Ma- 
deira (1851) ;and A Summer in Spain andFlor- 
ence (1857). Two volumes of his Speeches and 
Addresses, selected by himself, were publish- 
ed in 1875. — Just after the occurrence of the 
draft riots in New York, and when there was 
imminent danger of their renewal, Gen. Dix 
issued, August 17,1863, a proclamation giving 
warning against any such renewed outbreak : 


The law under vvliich this draft is to be made is 
for enrolling and calling out the national forces. 
It is founded on the principle that every citizen, 
who enjojs the protection of the Government and 
looks to it for the security of his property and his 
life, may be called on in seasons of great public 
danger to take up arms for the common defense. 
No political society can be held together unless 
this principle is acknowledged as one to which 
the Government may have recourse when its ex- 
istence is in peril. There is no civilized country 
in which it is not recognized. . . The draft about 
to be made is for one-fifth part of all persons be- 
tween twenty and thirty-five years of age, and of 
the unmarried between thirty-five and forty-five. 
The entii'e class between eighteen and thirty-five 
was long since drafted in the seceded States, and 
the draft has recently been extended to embrace 
nearly the whole arms-bearing population. Com- 
pared with the burden they are sustaining, ours 
is as nothing. 

The contest on our part is to defend our nation- 
ality, to uphold the institutions under the protec- 
tion of which we have lived and prospered, and to 
preserve untarnished the proud memories of our 
historj-, brief it is true, but full of high achieve- 
ments in science, in art, and in arms. Sliall we, 


in such a cause, shrink from labors and sacrifices 
which our misguided brethren in the seceded 
States are sustaining in tlie cause of treason and 
social disorganization ? For the honor of the State 
of New York, let us take care that the history of 
this rebellion, more vast than any which has ever 
convulsed a nation, shall contain nothing to make 
our children blush for the patriotism of their 

Whatever objection there may be to the law au- 
thorizing the draft, whatever defects it may have, 
it is the law of the land, and resistance to it is re- 
volt against the constituted authorities of the 
country. If one law can be set at defiance, anj^ 
other may be, and the foundation of all govern- 
ment be broken up. Those who, in the history of 
political societies, have been the first to set them- 
selves up against the law, have been the surest 
victims of the disorder which they have created. 
The poor have a far deeper interest in maintaining 
the inviolability of the law than the rich. Prop- 
erty, through the means it can command, is pow- 
er. But the only security for those who have 
little more than life and the labor of their own 
hands to protect, lies in the supremacy of the law. 
On them, and on those who are dependent on 
them, social disorder falls with fatal effect. . . . 

Under these circumstances, no good citizen will 
array himself, either by word or deed, against the 
draft. Submission to the law in seasons of tran- 
quillity is always the highest of political duties. 
But when the existence of the Government is in 
peril, he who resists its authority commits a crime 
of the deejDest turpitude. He is the voluntary in- 
strument of those who are seeking to overthrow 
it, and becomes himself a public enemy. More- 
over, resistance to the Government by those who 
are living under its protection, and are indebted 
to it for the daily tenure of their property and 
their lives, has not even the palliation under 
which those who lead the insurrection at the South 
seek to shelter themselves : — that they are acting 
under color of authority derived from legislatures 


or conventions of tlie people in their respective 
States. . . . 

Should these snggestions be disregardefl by any 
among you and renewed attempts be made to dis- 
turb the public peace, to break dosvn the barriers 
which have been set up for the security of prop- 
erty and life, and to defeat the execution of a law 
which it is my duty to enforce, I warn all such 
persons tliat ample preparation has been made to 
vindicate the authority of the Government, and 
that the first exhibitions of disorder or violence 
will be met by the most proropt and vigorous 
raeasures for their repression. 

Farm-houses should be surrounded with the 
beautiful and graceful in nature : the vine, the 
flowering shrub, and such other plants as will 
bear the rigor of our winters. Tliese are the true 
ornaments for rural dwellings. They are far more 
appropriate and tasteful than tlie most elaborate 
carvings in wood and stone ; and nature offers 
them freely to all who will take pains once a j-ear 
to bestow on them a few hours of attention. It is 
in these appendages to rural dwellings that the 
great charm of the country in England consists. 
English farm-houses and cottages are not often — I 
may say very rarely — faultless structures, when 
tested by a strict application of architectural rules. 
Nay, they are often ungraceful in design and rude 
in execution ; but with the ivy spreading itself 
over the gable, or covering up the porch, and the 
woodbine climbing up tlie casement and envelop- 
ing it in foliage, they acquire a beauty and a grace 
which no work of man's hand can equal. Such 
as these I should wish our rural habitations to be. 
They should be embellished not so much by the 
hands of the architect as by the taste and care of 
the occupants. The mistress presiding over the 
household and the family dwelling, should see to 
it that this dwelling should be externally a tj-pe 
of the neatness and order which reign within. 
Oi'nament it with the vines, plants, and flower- 
bearing shrubs whicli are suited to our climate. 


These require little attention, and many of them 
carry their foliage and verdure far beyond the 
season when most others decay. Flowers which 
require to-be housed in winter demand too much 
care, and, as a general rule, the}' are in the open 
air ephemeral in their bloom. The hardier plants 
—those wliich come out early and bear their foli- 
age late — are preferable for the decoration of the 
family dwelling. It is not easy to conceive with 
how little exjjenditure of time the most gratifying 
results may be obtained. A graveled walk from 
the entrance-gate to the porch, running through a 
lawn of well-cropped grass, with here and there a 
lilac an althea, or a seringa, a vine trained upon 
a frame — no matter how rough, for the foliage 
will cover it — will change the coldest prospect into 
one of warmth and beauty and grace. 

Nor is it to the taste alone that these rural em- 
bellishments address themselves ; they tend to 
elevate and refine the moral feelings and to make 
us better men. It seems difficult to connect v^'ith 
the homestead the sacred feelings which belong 
to it, when all around is bare and cold. But 
when clothed in rural beauty by kindred hands, 
the sentiment of home is exalted, and those who 
have thus embellislied it are presented to our 
minds and hearts under new and more endearing 
aspects. The leading impulses by which men are 
governed are constantly drawing them out into 
the world. Ambition, the desii'e of accumulation, 
the necessary business of life, are perpetually 
calling them away from home. Let home, then, 
be made so attractive in its external as well as its 
internal aspect, that it shall alwaj's be left with 
regret and regained with eagerness, .as the most 
grateful refuge from the active duties of life. 
Under these circumstances the minutest work of 
your hands will have its value. The vine you 
have trained, the shrub you have planted, will 
possess an interest in the sight of those who are 
dear to you wliich the most elaborate ornament 
wi-ouglit by the hands of the carver can never at- 
tain. — Agricultural Address : 1851. 


DIX, Morgan, an American clei-gyman 
and author, son of John A. Dix ; born in New 
York in 1827. He is a graduate of Columbia 
College, and took Holy Orders in 1853. Two 
years later he became assistant minister of 
Trinity Chruch, New York, and in 1862 was 
made rector of the same church. Among his 
published Avorks are a Commentary on Ro- 
mans (1864), a Commentary on Galatiaiis 
(1866), Lectures on Pantheism (1868), Lec- 
tm^es on the Tico Estates (1872), Sermons 
Doctrinal and Practical (1878). Lectures on 
the Prayer-hook of Edicard VI. (1881), Me- 
moir of John A. Dix (1888), The Gospel and 
Philosophy (1885), and Christ at the Door of 
the Heart (1886). 

It has been well mud, that " in Human Nature, 
it is the balance, harmony, and co-equal develop- 
ment of Sense, Intellect, and Spirit which consti- 
tutes perfection." "Body, Soul, and Spirit," 
saith the Apostle, summing up what we are. And 
in man, we find, over and above the physical 
senses three more : the intellectual sense, the 
moral sense, and the aesthetic sense. Man has an 
intelligent sense of the true, a moral sense of the 
good, an aesthetic sense of the beautiful. His are 
the reason, the affections, and the imagination ; 
he sympathizes, he thinks, he loves. Each ele- 
ment in him desires its own, and abhors what is 
ahen ; thought and reason cannot endure the iiTa- 
tional, the impossible, the absurd ; the heart, if 
pure, abhors the evil and the corrupt : the cultur- 
ed taste revolts at the squalid, the sordid, and the 
ugly. And true progress depends on the just and 
even development of the entire nature : cultivate 
one part, neglecting the rest, and the product is a 
monster. Stunt the intellectual powers, and you 
have a fool : dwarf the moral powers, and you 
have a devil ; starve the affections, and the life is 
hard, cynical, and cold ; kill the imagination, 
and all things become stiff, dry, and gloomy. De- 


relap. evenly and faithfully, the full manhood, 
and you tind your reward in the sweetness and 
strength of a thoughtful, pure, and beautiful 

But how shall this complex nature be developed? 
Progress must be towards some anticipated end; ad- 
vance is made by the help of liglits and marks along 
the way and far in front. You come at once to 
the questions, not to be evaded, Whither are we 
going, and for what do we exist ? Is this world 
all ? or is there another ? Is the life of man com- 
plete in threescore years and ten, or is there more 
of it to come? Is this natural order the only one 
with whtch we have to do, or is there also a su- 
pernatural order ? Your answer to these ques- 
tions is decisive of your fate. For if this world be 
all, and we have no other life, then the goal of 
human development and its limits must be sought 
somewhere this side of the barrier of death. But 
if not ; if there be also a supernatural order, with 
which our relations are direct ; if man has an im- 
mortal soul ; if God " hath given him length of 
days forever and ever," then the outlook for us is 
away beyond the black furrow of the grave. De- 
velopment stops not here ; it goes on, through 
things temporal into things eternal ; and the final 
objects of life, the ideals, the motive powers, 
must be in that radiant front. The intellect seeks 
an absolute truth, where alone it should be sought, 
in God. The moral nature cries out for a perfect 
righteousness. The a?sthetic nature discerns the 
outlines of an ideal loveliness feebly realized in 
nature. Development, in any creature capable of 
it. is the working toward the highest point 
which, by the constitution of the creature, it is 
able to reach. If man be not body only, but body, 
soul, and spirit, made " in the Image of God," 
the limits of development for him can only be at- 
tained in perfect union with that God '' who is a 
spirit,'" and in that state where thej" " never die." 
For us, the "Reason Why" is in the life beyond 
the tomb ; the beacons are on the coast of the 
eternal land. And now, that there may be 
growth, heathful and steady — intellectual, moral. 


and aesthetic advance — three things must be made 
known to us : an absolute truth, a faultless right- 
eousness, and a perfect beauty. Tlie mtellect de- 
mands the knowledge of a Truth, in which to rest, 
and by which to measure all lower and minor 
truths ; the affections demand union with a Love 
which may fill the heart and hallow all lesser 
loves ; the imagination seeks the sight of a su- 
preme ideal beauty, which shall throw its bright 
beams on this inferior state. 

" Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which is not. till the place 

Becomes religion." 

and killing the taste for what is vulgar, foul, and 
impure. Nor can it ever be well with men, un- 
less they know the truth, and love righteousness, 
and see that nothing is beautiful which is not also 
holy and pure. — The Gospel and Philosoijhy. 

DIXON, WiLLiA.-vi Hepworth, an English 
journalist, biographer, and traveler, born in 
1821. died in 1879. He was in early life a 
clerk in a mercantile house in Manchester, 
and contributed to several periodicals. In 1846 
he went to London and entered himself as 
a student of law in the Inner Temple. In 
1853 he became editor of the Athenceiini, and 
continued such imtil 1869, when he was ap- 
pointed a magistrate for Middlesex, and in 
the following rear was elected a member of 
the London School Board. During these 
years he traveled extensively in various 
parts of the world. He visited the East in 
1864, the United States in 1866, and Russia in 
1870. His principal works are : Life of John 
Hotvard (1849) ; Biography of William Penn 
(1851 ; subsequent editions contain a chapter 
vindicating Penn against the charges of Mac- 
aulay); Life of Robert Blake (1852); Personal 
History of Lord Bacon (1861) ; Lives of the 
Archbishoj^s of York (ISoS) ; The Holy Land 
(1865); New America (1867); Spiritual Wives, 
among the Mormons (1868); Free RussiOi 


1870); Her Majesty's Tower (1869-71); The 
Switzers ( 1872) ; Catharine of Aragon and 
Anne Boleyn (1874); The White Conquest 
(1876); Diana, Lady Lisle (1877); sa\d Ruhy 
Grey (1878). 


With the letter of thanks from Cromwell, a new 
set of instructions arrived, which allowed him to 
retUDi with part of his fleet, leaving his squadron 
of some fifteen or twenty frigates to ride before 
the Bay of Cadiz and intercept its traders : vrith 
their usual defei-ence to his judgment and experi- 
ence, tlie Protector and Board of Admiraltj' left 
the appointment of the command entirely with 
him. Hoisting his pennon on his old flag-ship, the 
St. (rcorge. Blake saw for the last time the spires 
and cupolas, the masts and towers, before which 
he had kept his long and victorious vigils. While 
lie j)ut in lor fresh water at Cascaes Road, he was 
very weak. •• 1 beseech God to strengthen him," 
was the fervent prayer of the English Resident at 
Lisbon, as he departed on the homeward voyage. 
While the ships rolled through the tempestuous 
waters of the Bay of Biscay he grew every day 
worse and worse. Some gleams of the old spirit 
broke forth as they approached the latitude of 
England. He inquired often and anxiously if the 
white cliffs were yet in sight. He longed to be- 
hold the swelling downs, the free cities, the good- 
ly churches of his native land. But he was now 
dying beyond all doubt. Many of his favorite offi- 
cers silently and mournfully crowded round his 
bed, anxious to catch the last tones of a voice 
which had so often called them to glory and vic- 
tory. Others stood at the poop and forecastle, 
eagerly examining every speck and line on the 
horizon, in hope of being first to catch the welcome 
glimpse of land. Though they Avere coming home 
crowned with laurels, gloom and pain were in 
every face. At last the Lizard was announced. 
Shortly afterwards, the bold cliffs and bare hills 
of Cornwall loomed out grandly in the distance. 
j3ut it was now too late for the dying hero. He 


had sent for the captains and other great officers 
of his fleet to bid them farewell ; and while they 
were yet in his cabin, the undulating hills of Dev- 
onshire, glowing with the tints of early autumn, 
came full in view. As the ships rounded Rame 
Head, the spires and masts of Plymouth, the 
woody heights of Mount Edgecombe, the low isl- 
and of St. Nicholas, the rocky steeps of the Hoe, 
Mount Batten, the citadel, the many picturesque 
and familiar features of that magnificent harbor 
rose one b}- one to sight. But the eyes which had 
so yearned to behold this scene once more were 
at that very instant closing in death. Foremost 
of the victorious squadron, the St. George rode 
with its precious burden into the Sound ; and just 
as it came into full view of the eager thousands 
crowding the beach, the pier-heads, the walls of 
the citadel, or darting in countless boats over the 
smooth waters between St. Nicholas and the 
docks, ready to catch the first glimpse of the hero 
of Santa Cruz, and salute him with a true English 
welcome, he, in his silent cabin, in the midst of 
his lion-hearted comi-ades, now sobbing like little 
children, yielded up his soul to God. — Life of 


The Black Man, a true child of the tropics, to 
whom warmth is like the breath of life, flees from 
the bleak fields of the Nortli, in which the white 
man repairs his fibre and renews his blood ; pre- 
ferring the swamps and savannas of the South, 
where, among palms, cotton-plants, and sugar- 
canes, he finds the rich colors in which his eye 
delights, the sunny heats in which his blood ex- 
pands. Freedom would not tempt him to go 
northward into frost and fog. Since the South 
has been made free to Sam to live in, he has 
turned his back on the cold and friendly North, in 
searcli of a brighter home. Sitting in the rice- 
field, by the cane-brake, under the mulberry-trees 
of his darling Alabama, witli his kerchief round 
his head, his banjo on his knee, he is joyous as a 
bii'd, singing his endless and foolish roundelay, , 


and feeling the sunshine burn upon his face. The 
negro is but a local fact in the countrj' ; having 
his proper home in a corner — the most sunny cor- 
ner — of the'United States. 

The Red Man, once a hunter of the Alleghanies, 
not less than of the prairies and tlie Rocky Mount- 
ains, has been driven by the pale-face — he and his 
squaw, his elk, his buffalo, and his antelope — into 
the far Western country ; into the waste and 
desolate lands lying westward of the Mississippi 
and Missouri. The exceptions hardly break the 
rule. Tlie red-skin will not dig, and to beg he is 
not ashamed. Hence, he has been pushed away 
from his place, driven out by the spade, and kept 
at bay by the smoke of chimney fires. A wild 
man of the plain and forest, he makes his home 
with the wolf, the rattlesnake, the buffalo, and 
the elk. When the wild beast flees, the wild man 
follows. The Alleghany slopes, on which, only 
seventy years ago, he chased the elk and scalped 
the white woman, will hear his war-wlioop, see 
his war-dance, feel his scalping-knife, no more. 
The red men find it hard to lay down a tomahawk, 
to take up a hoe ; some thousands of them only 
yet have done so ; some hundreds only have 
learned from the whites to drink gin and bitters, 
to lodge in frame-houses, to tear up the soil, to 
forget the chase, the war-dance, and the Great 

The Yellow Man, generally a Chinese, often a 
Malay, sometimes a Dyak, has been drawn into 
the Pacific States from Asia, and from the Eastern 
Archipelago, by the hot demand for labor ; any 
kind of which comes to him as a boon. From 
digging in the mine to cooking an omelet and iron- 
ing a shirt, he is equal to eveiything by which 
dollars can be gained. Of these yellow people 
there are now sixty thousand in California, Utah, 
and Montana ; they come and go ; but many more 
of them come than go. As yet these harmless 
crowds are weak and useful. Hop Chang keeps a 
laundry ; Chi Hi goes out as cook ; Cum Tiling is 
a maid-of -all-work. They are in no man's way, 
^nd they labor for a crust of bread. To-day, those 


jellow men are sixty thousand strong. They will 
ask for votes. They will hold the balance of 
parties. In some districts they will make a ma- 
jority : selecting the judges, forming the juries, 
interjjreting the laws. Next year is not more 
sure to come in its own season, than a great 
society of Asiatics to dwell on the Pacific slopes. 
A Buddhist church, fronting the Buddhist 
churches in China and Ceylon, will lise in Califor- 
nia, Oregon, and Nevada. More than aJl, a war 
of labor will commence between the races which 
feed on beef and the races which thrive on rice ; 
one of those wars in which the victory is not 
necessarily with the strong. — New America. 


The European races are spreading over every 
continent, and mastering the islets of every sea. 
During these hundred years some Powers have 
shot ahead, and some have slipped into the second 
rank. Austria, a hundred years ago tlie leading 
power in Europe, has been rent asunder and has 
forfeited her throne in Germany. Spain, a hun- 
dred years ago the first colonial empire in the 
world, has lost her colonies and conquests, and 
sunk into a third-rate power. France, whichlittle 
moi'e than a hundred years ago possessed Cana- 
da, Louisiana, the Mississippi Valley, the island of 
Mauritius, and a strong hold in Hindustan, has 
lost all these possessions, and exchanged her vine- 
yards and corn-fields on the Rhine for the snows 
of Savoy and the sands of Algiers. Piedmont and 
Prussia, on the other hand, have sprung into the 
foremost rank of nations. Piedmont has become 
Italy, with a capital in Milan and Venice, Flor- 
ence and Naples, as well as in Rome. StiU more 
striking and more glorious has been the growth of 
Prussia. A hundred years ago Prussia was just 
emerging into notice as a small but well-governed 
and hard-fighting country, with a territory no 
larger than Michigan, and a population considera- 
bly less than Ohio. In a hundred years this small 
but well-governed and hard-fighting Prussia has 
become the first military power on earth. Russia, . 


during these hundred years, has carried her arms 
into Finland, Grim Tartary, the Caucasus, and the 
Mohammedan Khanates, extending the White 
empire on tlie Casj^ian and Euxine, and along the 
Oxus and Jaxartes into Central Asia. Vaster still 
have been the marches and the conquests of Great 
Britain — her command of the ocean giving her 
facilities which are not possessed by any other 
power. Within a hundred years or thereabouts, 
she has grown from a kingdom of ten millions of 
people into an empire of two hundred and twenty 
millions, with a territory covering nearly one- 
third of the earth. Hardlj^ less striking than tlie 
progress of Russia and England has been that of 
the United States. Starting with a population no 
larger than that of Greece, the Republic has ad- 
vanced so rapidly that in a hundred years she 
has become the third power as to size of territory, 
the fourth as to wealtli of population in the 
w^orld. Soil and population are the two prime 
elements of power. Climate and fertilitj^ count 
for much ; nationality and compactness count for 
more ; but still the natural basis of growth is land, 
the natural basis of strength is population. Tak- 
ing these two elements together, the Chinese 
were, a hundred years ago, the foremost family of 
mankind. The}' held a territory covering three 
millions of square miles, and a population count- 
ing more than four hundred millions of souls. 
But what a change has taken jjlace ! China has 
been standing still, while England, Russia, and 
America have been conquering, planting, and 
annexing lands. — The White Conquest. 

DOANE, George Washington, an Ameri- 
can clergyman and poet, born at Trenton. N. 
J., in 1799, died at Burlington, N. J., in 1859. 
He graduated at Union College in 1818, and 
was admitted to Holy Orders in 1831. He 
officiated for three years in Trinity Church, 
New York ; in 1824 was appointed Professor 
at Washington College (now Trinity College), 
Hartford, Conn. In 1828 he became Assist- 
ant Minister, and subsequently Rector, of 


Trinity Church, Boston. In 1833 he was 
elected Bishop of the Episcopal diocese of 
New Jersey, and soon afterwards established 
St. Mary's Hall, a boarding-school for girls, 
at Burlington, N. J., and later founded Bur- 
lington College. In 1824 ho published a vol- 
ume of poems entitled Songs by the Way. 
From time to time he put forth Sermons and 
Charges. In 1860 was published a collection 
of his Poetical Works, Sermons, and Miscel- 
laneous Wyititigs, with a Memoir by his son, 
W. C. Doane. 


" What is that. Mother ? "— 

" The Lark, my child : — 
The morn has but just looked out and smiled. 
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, 
And is up and away, witli the dew on his breast. 
And a hymn in his heart to yon jjure bright sphere, 
To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 
Tuned, like the Lark's, to thy Maker's praise." 

"What is that. Mother?"'— 

" The Dove, my son : 
And that low. sweet voice, like the widow's moan. 
Is flowing out from her gentle breast. 
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest. 
As the wave is poured out from some crystal urn. 
For the distant dear one's quick return. 
Ever, my son, be thou like the Dove : — 
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love." 

" What is that, Mother ? "— 

'• The Eagle, boy, 

Proudly careering in his course of joy ; 

Firm, in his own mountain vigor relying ; 

Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; 

His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, 

He swerves not a hair, but bears onward — right on. 
Boy, may the Eagle's flight ever be thine. 
Onward and upward — true to the line." 


• -.What is that, Mother ? "— 

"The Swan, my love : — 

He is floating down from his native grove : 

No loved orte now, no nestling nigli ; 

He is floatmg down by himself to die. 

Death darkens his eye, it unplumes his wings; 

Yet the sweetest song is tlie last lie sings. — 
Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home." 

DOBELL, Sydney Thompson, an English 
poet, born in 1824. died in 1874. At the age of 
twelve he entered the office of his father, a 
wine-merchant of Cheltenham. In 1848 he 
published, his first poem The Roman, under 
the nom deplume of "'Sydney Yendys" (the 
last name being his baptismal name reversed). 
This was followed in 1850 by Balder. These 
poems found nuiuerous admirers, and the 
author was looked upon by many as the 
coming poet of his day ; they were, however, 
sharply criticised and travestied by Aytoun 
in his Fermilian. Mr. DobelFs subsequent 
productions were Soniiets on the War, in con- 
junction with Alexander Smith (1855) ; Eng- 
land in Time of War (1856); and England'' s 
Day (1871). 


The hoar unconscious walls, bisson and bare, 
Like an old man deaf, blind, and gray, in whom 
The years of old stand in the sun, and murmur 
Of childhood and the dead. From parapets 
Where tlie sky rests, from broken niches — each 
More than Olympus — for gods dwelt in them — 
Below from senatorial haunts and seats 
Imperial, where the ever-passing fates [forth 

Wore out the stone, strange hermit birds croaked 
Sorrowful sounds, like watchers on the height 
Crying the hours of ruin. When the clouds 
Dressed every myrtle on the walls in moruning, 
With calm prerogative tlie eternal pile 


Impassive shone with the unearthly light 
Of immortality. When conquering suns 
Triuraplied in jubilant earth, it stood out dark 
With thoughts of ages : lik(^ some mighty captive 
Upon liis death-bed in a Cliristian land, 
And lying, through the chant of psalm and creed, 
Unshriven and stern, with peace upon his brow, 
And on his lips strange gods. 

Rank weeds and grasses, 
Careless and nodding, grew, and asked no leave. 
Where Romans trembled. Where the wreck was 

Sweet pensive herbs, that had been gay elsewhere, 
With conscious mien of place rose tall and still, 
And bent with duty. Like some village children 
Who found a dead king on a battle-field, 
And with decorous care and I'everent pity 
Composed the lordlj^ ruin, and sat down 
Grave without tears. At length the giant lay, 
And everywhere he was begirt with years. 
And everywhere the torn and mouldering Past 
Hung with the ivy. For Time, smit witli honor 
Of what he slew, cast his own mantle on him. 
That none should mock the dead. 
— The Roman. 


No force nor fraud shall sunder us ! O ye, 
Who North or South, on East or Western land, 
Native to noble sounds, say Truth for truth. 

Freedom for freedom. Love for love, and God 
For God : O ye who in eternal youth 

Speak, with a living and creative flood. 
Tills universal English, and do stand 
Its breathing book ! live %\ orthy of tliat grand 

Heroic utterance — parted, jet a whole, 
Far, yet unsevered — children brave and free. 
Of the great mother-tongue ; and ye shall be 

Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's souL 
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, 
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's 


how's my boy? 
" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 
How 's my boy — my boy ! " — 
" What's your boy's name, good wife, 
And in what ship sailed he ? " — 

" My boy John — 

He that went to sea : 

What care I for the ship, sailor ? 

My boy 's my boy to me. 

You come back from the sea, 

And know not my son John ? 

I might as well have nsked some landsman 

Yonder down in tlie town. 

There 's not an ass in all the parish 

But he knows my John. 

How 's my boy— my boy ? 

And unless you let me know, 

I '11 swear you are no sailor — 

Blue jacket or no, sailor — 

Anchor and crown or no ! 

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."— 

" Speak low. woman, speak low ! " — 

"And why should I speak low, sailor, 

About my own boy John ? 

If I was as loud as I am proud, 

I 'd sing him over the town ! 

Why should I speak Iom', sailor?" — 

" That good ship went down ! " — 

" How 's my boy — my boy? 

What care I for the ship, sailor ? 

I was never aboard her I 

Be she afloat or be she aground. 

Sinking or swimming, I 'II be bound 

Her owners can afford her ! 

I say, how 's my John ? " — 

" Every man on board went down. 
Every man aboard her ! " — 
" How 's my boy — my boy? 
What care I for the men, sailor? 
I 'm not their mother. 
How 's my boy — my boy? 


Tell me of him, and no other ! 
How 's my boy — my boy ? " 

DOBSON, Henry Austin, born in 1840. He 
was educated partly in England, partly in 
France and Grermany, with the purpose of be- 
coming a civil engineer ; but at the age of six- 
teen he was appointed to a clerkship in the 
Board of Trade. He has been a frequent con- 
tributor in prose and verse to English peri- 
odicals. In 1873 he collected his scattered ly- 
rics into a volume entitled Vignettes in Rhyme 
and Vers de Societe, which was followed in 
1877 by Proverbs in Porcelain. His principal 
prose work is the Life of Fielding, forming 
one of the volumes of ' ' The English Men of 
Letters," a series of biographies edited by 
John Morley. He has also written many bi- 
ographical and critical sketches; among 
which are those of Hogarth in the " Biogra- 
phies of Great Artists;" of Prior, Praed, 
Gay, and Hood in Ward's ' ' English Poets ; " 
and Eighteenth Century Essays in " The 
Parchment Library." 


" More Poets yet ? " I liear him say, 
Arming his heavy liand to slay ; — 
*' Despite my skill and ' swashing blow,' 

They seem to sprout where'er I go : 
I killed a liost hnt yesterday ! " 

Slash on, O Hercules ! You may : 
Your task "s at best a Hydra-fray ; 

And, though you cut, not less will grow 
More poets yet I 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May? 

Who shall outblot the morning glow ; 

Or stem the full heart's overflow V 
Who? . There will rise, till Time decay. 
More Poets yet ! 



Once at the Angelus (ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious came to my bed : 
Angels in blue and white, crowned on the head. 

One was the friend I left stark in the snow ; 
One was the wife that died long, long ago ; 
One was the love I lost— how could she know ? 

One had my mother's eyes, wistful and mild ; 
One had my father's face ; one was a child : 
All of them bent to me ; bent down and smiled. 


Princes ! and you most valoi'ous, 

Nobles and Barons of all degrees ! 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 

Prodigals driven by the Destinies ! 

Nothing Ave ask or of gold or fees ; 
Harry us not with the hounds, we pray ; 

Lo — for the svircoat's hem we seize ; 
" Give us — ah ! give us— but Yesterday I" 

Dames most delicate, amorous ! 

Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
Beggars are we that pray you thus ; 

Beggars outworn of miseries ! 

Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 
Weary are we, and old, and gray ; 

Lo — for we clutch, and we clasp your knees ; 
" Give us — ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " 

Damosels, Dames, be piteous ! 

(But the Dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
Hear us, O Knights magnanimous ! 

(But the Knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 

Nothing they gat of hope or ease. 
But only to beat on the breast and say : 

•' Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 
Give us— ah ! give us— but Yesterday !" 

Youth, take heed to the prayer of these 1 
Many tliere be by the dusty way. 

Many that cry to the rocks and seas, 

'* Give us— ah ! give us but Yesterday ! '' 


When Spring conies laughing, by vale and hill, 
By wind-flower walking, and datfodil. 
Sing stars of morning, sing morning skies. 
Sing of blue speedwell, and my Love's eyes. 

When comes the Summer, lull-leaved and strong, 
And gay birds gossip, the orchard long. 
Sing hid. sweet honey, that no bee sii)s ; 
Sing red. red and my Love's lips. 

When Autumn scatters the leaves again. 
Ajid i»iU'd sheaves bury the l)roa<l-wlifpled wain, 
Sing flutes of harvest, where men rejoice : 
Sing rounds of reapers, and my Love's voice. 

But when comes Winter, witli hail uno storm. 
And red fire roaring, and ingle warm. 
Sing first sad going of friemis that part ; 
Then sing glad meeting, and my Love's heart. 

DODDRIDGE, Philip, an English clergy- 
man, V)orn at London in 1702, died at Lisbon, 
Portugal, in 17.")!. He was left an orphan at 
the age of thirteen. He eai-ly manifested 
talents of such high order that the Duchess 
of Bedford offered to defray his expenses 
at either of the great Universities; but he de- 
clined the pioposal on account of the implied 
condition that he should take Orders in the 
Established Church. In 1711) he entered the 
Dissenting Academy at Kibworth; iv >m 1722 
t(j 1729 he exercised pastoral functions in sev- 
eral places, still diligently prosecuting his 
studies. In 1729 he was placed in charge of 
the academy, which he removed from Kib- 
worth to Northampton. Avhere he had been 
invited to become pastor. He filled these po- 
sitions with great success for twenty years, 
when, his health failing, he sailed for Lisbon, 
hoping to d(M-ive benefit from a milder cli- 
mate, but he died only five days after his ar- 


The Works of Doddridge are very numer- 
ous. They con.sist of Sei'nions, Treatises and 
Lectures on theological and religious topics, 
MiscellaHies, Hymns, The Family Expositor, 
The RiiSl' and Progress of Religion in th<i 
Soul (the most popular of all his books), 
and several volumes of Correspondetice, col- 
lected by his great-grandson, and published 
eighty years after his death. A complete edi 
tion of his Works (not including the Con-es- 
pondence) was published in 1802. in ten largo 


Had the letter whicli I received from you so 
many months ago been merely an address of 
coiiinion friendship. I hope no luirry of business 
would liave led me to delay so long the answer 
which civility and gratitude would in that ease 
have required ; or had it been to request any ser- 
vice in my power to j'ou. Sir, or to an\- of your 
family or friends, I would not willingly Iiave neg- 
lected it so many days or hours ; but when it con- 
tained notliing material, except an unkind insinu- 
ation that you esteemed me a dishonest man. who, 
out of a design to please a parly, had written 
what he did not believe, or, as you thought fit to 
express yourself . had '"trimmed it a little with 
the gospel of Christ,*' I thought all that was 
necessary — after having fully satisfied mj' own 
conscience on that head, which, I bless God, I 
very easily <lid — was to forgive and pray for the 
mistaken brother who had done me the injury, 
and to endeavor to forget it, by turniiig my 
thoughts to some more pleasant, important, and 
useful subject. . . . But I have been certainly in- 
formed that j'ou, interpreting my silence as an ac- 
knowledgment of the justice of your charge, have 
sent copies of your letter to several of your friends, 
who have been industrious to propagate them far 
and near. . . . 

Though it was unkind readih- to entertain tlie 
suspicions you express, I do not so much complain 

41«' I'll 1 1, IP DODDRIDGE. 

of your arriuainting me with them : hut on ^'hat 
imaginable humane or Christian principle could 
you communicate such a letter, and grant copies 
of it? With what purpose could it be done, but 
wit) I a design of aspe^^ing my character? and to 
what purpose could you desire my character to be 
reproached? Are you sure. Sir. that I am not in- 
tending the honor of God, an<l the good of souls, 
by my various labors of one kind and another — so 
sure of it, that you will venture to maintain at 
the bar of Christ, before the throne of God. that I 
was a person whom it was your duty to endeavor 
to discredit? for, considering me lus a Christian, a 
minister, and a tutor, it could not lie merely an 
indifferent action : nay, considering me as a man, 
if it was not a duty, it was a crime I 

I will do you the justice. Sir. to suppose you 
have really an ill opinion of me, and Ijelieve I 
mean otherwise than I write ; but let me ask, 
what reason have yt>u for that opinion ? Is it l)e- 
cause you cannot think me a downriglit fool, and 
conclude that every one who is not. must he of 
your opinion, and is a knave if he does not declare 
that he is so? or is it from anything particular 
which you apprehend you know of my sentiments 
contrary to what my writings declare? He that 
searches my heart, is witness that what I wrote 
on the very passage you except against, I wrote 
as what apjieared to me most agreeable to truth, 
and m()St. subservient to the purposes of His glory 
and the edification of my readers ; and I see no 
reason to alter it in a second edition, if I should 
reprint my Exposition, though I liad infinitely 
rather the book should i^erish than advance any- 
thing contrary to the tenor of the gospel, and sub- 
versive to the sf>ids of men. I guard against ap- 
prehending Clirist to be a mere ci-eature, or an- 
other God, inferior to the Fatlier, or co-ordinate 
with him. And you will maintain that I believe 
him to lie so : from whence, Sir, does your evi- 
dence of that arise? If from my writings, I ap- 
prehend it must be in consequence of some infer- 
ence you di-aw from them, of laying aoy just 


foundation for whicli I am not at present aware : 
nor did I ever intend. I am sm-e, to say or intimate 
anytliing of the kind. If from report. I must 
caution yoU against raslily believing such reports. 
I have heard some stories of me, eclioed back from 
your neighborhood, which God knows to be as 
false as if I had been reported to have asserted the 
divine authority of the Alcoran I or to have writ- 
ten Hobbes's Leviathan ; and I can account for 
them in no other way than by supposing, either 
that coming through several hands, every one 
mistook a little, or else that some people have 
such vivid dreauis, that they cannot distinguish 
them from realities, and so report them a« facts ; 
though how to account lor their propagating such 
reports so zealously, on any principles of Christi- 
anity or common humanity, especially consider- 
ing how fp'- 1 am from having offered them anj' 
personal injury, would amaze me. if I did not 
know how far party zeal debases the understand- 
ings of who in other matters are wise and 
good. All I shall add with regard to such persons 
is, tliat I pray God this evil may not be laid to 
their charge. I have seriously reflected with my- 
self whence it should come that such suspicions 
should arise of my being in what is generally call- 
ed the Arian scheme, and the chief causes I can 
discover are these two : my not seeing the argu- 
ments which some of my brethren have seen 
against it in some disputed texts, and my tender- 
ness and regard to those who. I have reason to be- 
lieve, do espouse it, and whom I dare not in con- 
science raise a popular cry against I Nor ana I at 
all fond of urging the controversy, lest it should 
divide churches, and drive some who are waver- 
ing, as indeed I myself once was. to an extremity 
to which I should be sorry to see such worthy per- 
sons, as some of them are, reduced. — Letter to the 
Rev. Mr. Bourne : 1742. 

Among the Hymns of Doddridge are sev- 
eral which are sung in Protestant churches 
of every denomination. 



Hark, the ghid isouiid ! tlie Saviour comes, 

The Saviour ])r()inise»l hmg : 
Let every heart prepare a throne, 

And every voice a song ! . . . . 

He conies, tlie prisoners to release. 

In Satan's bondage lield ; 
The gates of brass before hiui burst, 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest films of vice 

To clear the mental i-ay, 
And on the eyelids of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 

He comes, the broken heart to bind. 

The bleeding soul to cure, 
And with the treasures of his grace 

To em-ich the Immble poor. . . . 

Our glad hosannas, Prince of Peace, 
Thy welcome shall proclaim, 

And Heaven's eternal arches ring 
With ihj' beloved name. 


Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes, 

And raise jour voices high ; 
Awake and praise that sovereign love 

That shows salvation nigh. 

On all the wings of time it flies, 
Each moment brings it near ; 

Then welcome each declining day, 
Welcome each closing jear ! 

Not many years their round shall run, 

Not many mornings rise, 
Ere all its glories stand reveaJed 

To our admirmg eyes : 

Ye wheels of nature, speed your course I 

"Xe mortal powers decay ; 
Fjist as je brmg tiie night of death, 

Ye brmg eternai day : 



Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all youi- feebler light ; 
Fareu'ell, thou ever-changing moon. 

Pale empress of the night. 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed ! 
My soul, that sj)rings lieyond thy sphere, 

No mort' doinauds thine aid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 

Of my divine abode 

The pavement of those heavenly courts 

Where I shall reign with God. 

The Father of eternal liglit. 

Shall there his beams display. 
Nor shall one moment's dai'kness mix 

With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 

Shall swell into mine eyes ; 
Nor the meridian sun decline 

Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of his saints 

Shall in one song unite. 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 

DODGE, Mary Abigail ^ Gail Hamilton," 
pseiul.), an American author, born at Hamil- 
ton, Mas8., in 1838. She began literary work 
by contributing to periodicals. She is the 
author of several volumes of essays ; among 
them Country Lii-ing and Country TJiinking 
(1862), Gala Days (1863), Stumbling Blocks 
(1864), Red-Letter Days in Applet horpe, and 
Suinmer Rest {1SQ6), Wool Gathering (1^^7), 
Woman's Wrongs (1868), Battle of the Books 
(1870), Woman's Worth and Worthlessness 
(1872). Twelve Miles from a Lemon (1874), Ser- 


mons to the Clergy (1875), WJiat Think ye of 
Christ (1877), and Our Common School Sys- 
tem (1880). 


There is no such tiling as knowing a man in- 
timately. Every soul is, for the greater part of 
its mortal life, isolated from every other. Whether 
it dwell in the Garden of Eden or the Desert of 
Sahara, it dwells alone. Not only do we jostle 
against the street-crowd unknowing and unknown, 
but we go out and come in, we lie down and rise 
up, witli strangers. Jupiter and Neptune sweep 
the heavens iu)t more unfamiliar to us than the 
worlds that circle our own hearth-stone. Day 
after day, and year after year, a person moves by 
your side ; he sits at tlie same table ; he reads the 
same books ; he kneels in the same church. You 
know every hair of his head, everj' trick of his lips, 
every tone of his voice ; you can tell him far off 
l>y his gait. Without seeing him, you recognize 
his step, his knock, his laugh. "Know him?" 
"Yes, I have known him these twenty years." No, 
you don't know him. You know his gait, and 
hair, and voice. You know what preacher he 
hears, what ticket he voted, and what were his 
last year's expenses ; but you don't know him. 
He sits quietly in his chair, but he is in the tem- 
ple. You speak to him ; his soul comes out into 
the vestibule to answer you, and returns — and the 
gates are shut ; therein you cannot enter. You 
were discussing the state of the country ; but 
when you ceased, he opened a postern-gate, went 
down a bank, and launcheil on a sea over whose 
waters you have no boat to sail, no star to guide. 
You have loved and reverenced him. He has 
been your concrete of truth and nobleness. Un- 
wittingly you touch a secret spring, and a Blue- 
Beard chamber stands revealed. You give no 
sign ; you meet and part as usual : but a Dea4 
Sea rolls between you two torevermore. 

It must be so. Not even to the nearest and 
dearest can one unveil the secret place where his 
soul abideth; so that there shall be no more any 


winding ways or liidden chambers ; but to your 
indifferent neighbor, what blind aliej's, and deep 
caverns, and inaccessible mountains ! To hiui 
who " toijchesthe electric chain wlierewith you "re 
darkly bound," your soul sends back an answer- 
ing thrill. One little window is opened, and there 
is short parley. Your ships speak to each other 
now and then in welcome, though imperfect com- 
munication ; but immediately you strike out 
again into the great shoreless sea, over which you 
must sail forever alone. You may shrink from 
the far-reaching solitudes of your heart, but no 
other foot than youi's can tread them save those 

"That eighteen hundred years ago, w'ere nailed, 
For our advantage, to the bitter cross." 

Be thankful that it is so — that only His eye sees 
whose hand formed. If we could look in, we 
should be appalled at the vision. The worlds that 
glide around us are mysteries too high for us. We 
cannot attain to them. The naked soul is a sight 
too awful for man to look at and live. — Country 
Living and Country Thinking. 


Some people have conscientious scruples about 
fishing. I- respect them. I had them once my- 
self. Wantonh- to destroy, for mere sport, the in- 
nocent life in lake and river, seemed to me a cru- 
elty and a shame. But people must fish. Now, 
then, how shall your theory and practice be har- 
monized? Practice can't yield. Plainly, theorj- 
must. A jear ago, I went out on a rock in the 
Atlantic Ocean, held a line — just to see how it 
seemed — and caught eight fislies ; and ever)' time 
a fish came up, a scruple went down. . . . Which 
facts will partially account for the eagerness with 
which I. one morning, seconded a proposal to -go 
a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles away. 

One wanted the scenery, another the drive, a 
third the chowder, and so on : but I — I may as 
well confess— wanted the excitement, the fishes, 
the opportunity of displaying my piscatory prow- 
ess. I enjoyea in anticipation the masculine ad- 
miration and feminine chagrin that would ac- 


company the beautiful, fat, shining, speckled, 
prismatic trout into my basket, while other rods 
waited in vain for a "nibble." I resolved to be 
magnanimous. Modesty should lend to genius a 
heightened charm. I would win hearts by my hu- 
mility, as well as laurels by my dexterity. I 
would disclaim superior skill, attribute success to 
fortune, and offer to distribute my spoil among 
the discomfited. Glory, not pelf, was my 

You may imag'-ne my disgust on finding, at 
the end of our journey, that there Avas only one 
rod for the whole part\\ Plenty of lines, but no 
rod. What wes to be done ? It was proposed to 
improvise rods from the trees. "No," said the fe- 
male element. " We don't care. We shouldn't 
catch any fish. We 'd just as soon stroll about." 
I bubbled up, if I didn't boil over. We shouldn't, 
should ive ? Pray, speak for yourselves ! Didn't 
I catch eight cod-fishes in the Atlantic Ocean, last 
summer? Answer me that ! " I was indignant 
that they should so easily be turned away, by the 
trivial circumstance of there being no rods, from 
the noble art of fishing. My spirits rose to the 
height of the emergency. The story of my ex- 
ploits makes an impression. There is- a marked 
respect in the tone of their reply. " Let there be 
no division among us. Go you to the stream, O 
Nimrod of the waters, since you alone have the 
prestige of success. We will wander quietly in 
the woods, build a fire, fry the potatoes, and 
await your return with the fish." 

They go to the woods. I hang my prospective 
trout on my retrospective cod, and march river- 
ward. Halicarnassus, according to the old saw, 
" leaves this world and climbs a tree," and, with 
jackknife, cord, and perseverance, manufact- 
ures a fishing-rod, which he courteously offers to 
me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in 
no ambiguous phrase that I consider nothing be- 
neath the best as good enough for me. Halicar- 
nassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by 
my rhetoric, and meekh' jaelds up the best rod, 
though the natural man rebels. Tlie bank of the 


river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and dilHicult of as- 
cent or decent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on 
the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. I 
am acquiescent, and lean over the railmg awaiting 
the result of investigation. Halicarnassus picks 
his way over the rocks, sidewise and zigzaggy 
along the bank, and down the river, in search of 
fish. I grow tired of playing Casablanca, and 
steal behind the bridge, and pick my way over the 
rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank, and 
up the river, in search of ' ' fun ; " practice irregu- 
lar and indescribable gymnastics with variable 
success for half an hour or so. Shout from the 
bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words, 
but see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously ; 
and evidently laboring under great excitement. 
Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will per- 
mit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking trumpet of 
his hands, and roars, " I 've found — a Fish ! Left 
— him for — You — to Catch ! come Quick ! " — and 
plunging headlong down the bank, disappears. I 
am touched to the heart by this sublime instance 
of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up to 
the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of 
boot gets entangled in dress every third step— fish- 
ing-line in tree-top every second ; progress conse- 
quently not so rapid as could be desired. Reach 
the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to 
rock to the middle of the stream — balance on a 
pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, 
and just firm enough to make it worth while to 
run the risk — drop my line into the spot designat- 
ed — a quiet, black little pool in the rushing river 
— see no fish, but have faith in Halicarnassus. 

"Bite?" asks Halicarnassus. eagerly. 

"Not yet," I answer, sweetly. Breathless ex- 
pectation. Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five 
minutes gone. 

"Bite?" calls Halicarnassus, from down the 

" Not yet," hopefully. 

" Lower your line a little. I '11 come in a min- 
ute." Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. 


Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an 
old stick. Splash it otf contemptuously. 

"Bite?" calls Halicarnassus from afar. 

"No,'' faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins 
of Carthage. 

'■ Perhaps he will bj' and by,"' suggests Halicar- 
nassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Ai-ms 
breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain 
dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down the 
stream. Tempted to give up, but look at the 
empty basket, think of the expectant party and 
the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience. 

" Bite ? ■' comes the distant voice of Halicarnas- 
sus, disappearing by a bend in the river. 

" No ! " I moan, trying to stand on one foot to 
rest the other, and ending by standing on neither ; 
for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls 
over and expires ; and only a vigorous leap and a 
sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a bal- 
ancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. 
Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather 
all my remaining strength, wind the line about 
the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out into the deep- 
est and most unobstructed part of the stream, 
climb up pugnis et calcibiis on the back of an old 
boulder ; coax, threaten, cajole, and intimidate 
my wet boots to come off ; dip my handkerchief 
in the water, and fold it on my head, to keep from 
being sunstruck : lie down on the rock, pull my 
hat over my face, and dream, to the purling of the 
river, the singing of the birds, and the music of 
the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far 
away — broad, and deep, and seaward rushing — 
now in shadow, now in shine — now lashed by 
storm, now calm as a baby's sleep — bearing on its 
vast bosom a million crafts, whereof I see only 
one — a little pinnace, frail yet buoyant — tossed 
hither and thither, yet always keeping her prow 
to the "^'aves — washed, but not whelmed. ... O 
brave little bark ! Is it Love that watches at the 
masthead ? Is it Wisdom that stands at the helm ? 
Is it Strength that curves the swift keel ? 

' ' Hullo ! how many ? " 

" I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into 


the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk 
of going in mj'self , catch it by one of the strings, 
and stare at Halicarnassus. 

" Asleep^ I fancy ? " says Halicarnassus, inter- 

"Fancy ! " I echo, dreamily. 

" How many fishes ? "' persists Halicarnassus. 

" Fishes ! " says the echo. 

" Yes, fishes," repeats Halicarnassus, in a louder 

" Yes, it must have been the fishes," murmurs 
the echo. 

'•Goodness gracious me!" ejaculates Halicar- 
nassus, with the voice of a giant; "how many 
fishes have you caught ? " 

' ' Oh ! yes," waking up and hastening to appease 
his wrath ; " eight — chiefly cod." 

Indignation chokes his speech. Meanwhile I 
wake up still further, and, instead of standing be- 
fore him like a culpit, beard him like an avenging 
Fury, and upbraid him with his deception and 
desertion. He attempts to defend himself, but is 
overpowered. Conscious guilt dyes his face, and 
remorse gnaws at the roots of his tongue. . . We 
walk silently towards the woods. We meet a 
small boy with a tin pan and thirty-six fishes in 
it. We accost "him. 

"Are these fishes for sale ? " asks Halicarnassus. v 

" Bet they be ! " says small boy with energy. 

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look 
meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look mean- 
ingly at our empty basket. " Won't you tell? " 
says Halicarnassus. "No; won't you?" Hali- 
carnassus whistles, the fishes are transferred from 
pan to basket, and we walk away " chirp as a 
cricket," reach the sylvan party, and are speedily 

' ' O what beauties ! Who caught them ? How 
many are there ? " 

"Thirty-six," says Halicarnassus, in a lordly, 
thorough-bred way. " I caught 'em." 

" In a tin pan," I exclaim, disgusted with his 


A cry of rage from Halicarnassus, a shout of 
derision from the party. 

"And how many did you catch, pray?" de- 
mands he. 

"Eight — all cods,'" I answer placidly. — Gala- 

su(x:s:ss m life. 

Tliis I reckon to be success in life — fitness — per- 
fect adaptation. I hold him successful, and him 
only, who has found or conquered a position in 
which he can bring himself into full play. Suc- 
cess is perfect or partial, according as it comes up 
to, or falls below, this standard. But entire suc- 
cess is rare in this world. Success in business, 
success in ambition, is not success in life, though 
it may be comprehended in it. Very few are the 
symmetrical lives. Very few of us are working 
at the top of our bent. One may give scope to his 
mechanical invention ; but his poetry is cramped. 
One has his intellect at higli pressure ; but the 
fires are out under his heart. One is the bond- 
servant of love ; and Pegasus becomes a dray- 
horse, Apollo must keep the pot boiling, and Mi- 
neiwa is hurried with the fall sewing. So we go, 
and above us the siin shines, and the stars throb ; 
and beneath us the snows, and the flowers, and 
the blind, instinctive earth, and over all, and in 
all, God blessed forever. Now, then, success be- 
ing the best tiling, we do well to strive for it ; but 
success being difficult to attain, if not unattaina- 
ble, it remains for us to wring from our failures 
all the sap and sustenance and succor that are in 
them, if so be we may grow thereby to a finer and 
fuller richness, and hear one day the rapturous 
voice bid us come up higher. 

And be it remembered, what a man is — not 
what a man does — is the measure of success. The 
deed is but the outflow of the soul. By their 
fruits ye shall know them. The outward act has 
its inward significance, though we may not al- 
ways interpret it aright, and its moral aspect de- 
pends upon the agent. "In vain," says Sir Thom- 
as Browne, "we admire the lustre of anything 



seen ; that which is truly glorious is invisible." 
Character, not condition, is the trust of life. A 
man's own self is God's most valuable deposit with 
him. This is not egotism, but the broadest benev- 
olence. A man can do no good to the world bo- 
yond himself. A stream can rise no higher than 
its fountain. . . . 

When I see, as I sometimes do see. those whom 
the world calls unsuccessful, furnished with every 
virtue and adorned with every grace, made con- 
siderate through suffering, sympathetic by isola- 
tion, spiritedly patient, meek,tj^et defiant, calm and 
contemptuous, tender even of the sorrows and tol- 
erant of the joys which thej' despise, enduring the 
sympathy and accepting the companionship of 
weakness because it is kindly offered, though it 
be a burden to be dropped just inside the door, 
and not a treasure to be taken into the heart's 
chamber — I am ready to say, " Blessed are the un- 
successful." Blessed are the unsuccessful, the 
men who have nobly striven and nobly failed. He 
alone is in an evil case who has set his heart on 
false or selfish or trivial ends. Whether he secure 
them or not, he is alike unsuccessful. But he 
who " loves high " is king in his own right, though 
he '"live low." His plans may be abortive, but 
himself is sure. . . . From the grapes of sorrow he 
shall press the wine of life. — Qala-Days. 

DODGE. Mary Elizabeth (Mapes), an 
American author, born in New York, in 1838. 
She has published Tlie Irvington Stories, 
Hans Br inker, or the Silver Skates (1863), A 
Feiv Friends (1869), Rhymes and Jingles 
(1874). Theophilus and Others (1876), Along 
the Way, a volume of poems (1879), and Don- 
ald and Dorothy (1883). Hans Drinker, a 
tale of child-life in Holland, received a prize 
from the French Academy, and has been 
translated into several languages. Mrs. 
Dodge has been Editor-in-chief of the St. 
Nicholas Magazine for young people, from its 
first publication. 



The 20th of December came at last, bringing 
with it the perfection of winter weather. All 
over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight. 
It tried its power on lake, canal, and river ; but 
the ice flashed defiance and showed no sign of 
melting. The very weatlier-cocks stood still to 
enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holi- 
day. Nearly all the past week they had been 
whirling briskly ; now, being rather out of breath, 
they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a 
windmill working when the weather-cocks have 
nothing to do ! There was an end to grinding, 
crushing, and sawing for that da3\ 

It was a good thing for the millers near Brock. 
Long before noon they concluded to take in their 
sails, and go to the race. Everybody would be 
there — already the north side of the frozen Y was 
bordered with eager spectators ; the news of the 
great skating-match had traveled far and wide. 
Men, women, and children in holiday attire were 
flocking toward the spot. Some wore furs, and 
wintry cloaks or shawls ; but many, consulting 
their feelings rather than the almanac, were dress- 
ed as for an October day. 

The site selected for the race was a faultless 
plain of ice near Amsterdam, on that great arm 
of the Zuider Zee which Dutchmen of course must 
call the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large 
numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine 
chance to see what was to be seen. Many a peas- 
ant from the northward had wisely chosen the 
20th as the day for the next city -trading. It 
seemed that every body, young and old, who had 
wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened 
to the scene. 

There wex-e the gentry in their coaches, dressed 
like Parisians, fresh from the Boulevards ; Ajn- 
sterdam children in charity uniforms ; girls from 
the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable gowns 
and white head-bands ; boys from the Burgher 
Asylum, with then- black tights and short-skirted 
harlequin coats. There were old-fashiojied gen- 
tlemen in cocked hats and vehet knee-bx'eeches ; 


old-fashioned ladies, too, in stiff, quilted skirts and 
bodies of dazzling brocade. These were accom- 
panied by servants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. 
There were the peasant folk arrayed in every 
possible Dutch costume : Shy young rustics in 
brazen buckles ; simple village maidens concealing 
their flaxen hair under fillets of gold ; women 
whose long, narrow aprons were stiff with em- 
broidery ; w^omen with short, corkscrew curls 
hanging over their foreheads ; women wuth shaved 
heads and close-fitting caps, and women in striped 
skirts and windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in 
homesjjun, in velvet and broadcloth ; burghers in 
model European attire, and burghers in short 
jackets, wide trousers and steeple-crowned hats. 
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden 
shoes and coarse petticoats, with solid gold cres- 
cents encircling their heads, finished at each tem- 
ple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a 
century old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and 
ear-rings of the purest gold. Many were content 
with gilt or even with brass, but it was not an un- 
common thing for a Friesland woman to have all 
the family treasures in her head-gear. More than 
one rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand 
guilders upon her head that day. Scattered 
through the crowd were peasants from the Island 
of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the 
widest of breeches ; also women from Marken 
with short blue petticoats, and black j.nckets gaily 
figmred in front. They wore red sleeves, white 
aprons, and a cap like a bishop's mitre over their 
golden hair. The children often were as quaint 
and odd-looking as their elders. In short, one- 
third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily 
from a collection of Dutch paintings. 

Everywhere could be seen tall women, and 
stumpy men, lively faced girls, and youths whose 
expression never changed from sunrise to sunset. 
There seemed to be at least one specimen from 
every known town in Holland. There were 
Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese-makers, 
Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amster- 
dam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried 


up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed sheplierds 
from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe 
and tobacco-pouch. Some carried what might be 
called the smokers complete outfit — a pipe, 
tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a 
silver net for protecting the bowl, and a box of 
the strongest of brimstone matches. A true Dutch- 
man, you must remember, is rarely without his 
pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a 
moment neglect to breathe, but when the pipe is 
forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were 
no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke were 
rising from every possible quarter. The more 
fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and 
solemn the smoker. 

Look at those boys and girls on stilts ! That is 
a good idea. They can see over the heads of the 
tallest. It is strange to see those little bodies high 
in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They 
have such a resolute look on their I'ound faces, 
what wonder that nervous old gentlemen, with 
tender feet, wince and ti-emble while the long- 
legged little monsters stride past them. . , Where 
are the racers ? All assembled together near the 
white columns. It is a beautiful sight. Forty 
boys and girls in picturesque attire darting with 
electric swiftness in and out among each other, or 
sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, 
whispering in the fullness of youthful glee. A 
few careful ones are soberly tightening their 
straps ; others halting on one leg, with flushed, 
eager faces, suddenly cross the suspected skate 
over their knee, give it an examining shake, and 
dart off again. One and all are possessed with the 
spirit of motion. They cannot stand still. Their 
skates are a part of them, and every runner seems 
bewitched. Holland is the place for skaters after 
all. . . . Such jumping, such poising, such spin- 
ning, such india-rubber exploits generally ! That 
boy with a red cap is the Hoh now ; his back is a 
watch-spring, his body is cork — no, it is iron, or it 
would snap at that ! He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, 
a corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball all in an instant. 
When you think he 's erect he is down ; and when 


you think he is clown he is up. He drops his 
glove on the ice, and turns a somersault as he 
picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the 
cap from Jacob Poofs astonished head and claps 
it back again ' hind side before.' Lookers-on 
hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy ! It is Arctic 
weather under your feet, but more than temperate 
overhead. Big drops already are rolling down 
your forehead. Superb skater, as you are, you 
may lose the race. — Hans Brinker. 


Intent the conscious mountains stood, 

The friendly blossoms nodded, 
As through the cafion's lonely wood 

We two in silence plodded. 
A something owned our presence good ; 

The very breeze that stirred our hair 
Whispered a gentle greeting : 

A grand, free courtesy was there, 

A welcome from the summit bare 
Down to the brook's entreating. 

Stray warblers in the branches dark 

Shot through the leafy passes. 
While the long note of meadow-lark 

Rose from the neighboring grasses ; 
The yellow lupines, spark on spark. 

From the more open woodland way, 
Flashed through the sunlight faintly ; 

A wind-blown little flower, once gay, 

Looked up between its petals gray 
And smiled a message saintly. 

The giant ledges, red and seamed, 

The clear, blue sky, tree-fretted ; 
The mottled light that round us streamed, 

The brooklet vexed and petted : 
The bees that buzzed, the gnats that dreamed, 

The flitting, gauzy things of June ; 
The plain, far off. like misty ocean, 

Or, cloud-land bound, a fair lagoon, — 

They sang within us like a tune, 
They swayed us like a dream of motion. 


The hours went loitering to the West, 
The shadows lengthened slowly ; 

The radiant snow on mountain-crest 
Made all the distance holy. 

Near by, the earth lay full of rest, 
The sleepy foot-hills, one by one, 

Dimpled their way to twilight ; 
And ere the perfect day was done 
There came long gleams of tinted sun, 

Through lieaven's crimson skylight. 

Slowly crept on tlie listening night. 

The sinking moon slione pale and slender ; 
We hailed the cotton-woods, in sight, 

The home-roof gleaming near and tender. 
Guiding our quickened steps aright. 

Soon darkened all the mighty hills. 
The gods were sitting there in shadow ; 

Lulled were the noisy woodland rills. 

Silent the silvery woodland trills, — 
Twas starlight over Colorado. 


We know not what it is, dear. 

This sleep so deep and still ; 
The folded hands, the awful calm, 

The cheek so pale and chill ; 
The lids that will not lift again, 

Though we may call and call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace 

That settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear. 

This desolate heart-pain ; 
This dread to take our daily way. 

And walk in it again : 
We know not to what other sphere 

The loved who leave us go, 
Nor why we "re left to wonder still. 

Nor why we do not know. 

But this we know : our loved and dead. 

If they should come this day — 
Should come and ask us, " What is life?" 


Not one of us could say. 
Life is a lujstery as deep 

As ever death can be ; 
Yet oh ! how dear it is to us — 

This life we live and see ! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — 

And blessed is the thought ! — 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved, 

Though we may show you naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal 

The mystery of death — 
Ye cannot tell us. if ye would, 

The mystery of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not 

With knowledge or intent. 
So those who enter death must go 

As little children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe 

That God is overhead ; 
And as life is to the living, 

So death is to the dead. 

DODGSON, Charles Lutridge. an English 
clergyman, has written under the pseudonym 
of ' ' Lewis Carroll, " two very popular tales for 
children, entitled Alice in Wonderland (1869) 
and TJirongh the Looking-Glass (1875). He 
has also published The Hunting of the Snark 
(1876), Rhyme f and Reason f (1883), and A 
Tangled Tale (1886). 

THE MOCK turtle's STORY. 

'' Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a 
deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words 
were followed by a very long silence, broken onlj- 
by an occasional exclamation of •'Hjckrrh!" 
from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sob- 
bing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly 
getting up and saying, " Thank you. sir, for your 
interesting story," but she could not help thinking 
there must be more to come, so she sat still and 
said nothing. " When we were little," the Mock 


Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still 
sobbing a little now and then, " we went to school 
in the sea. The master was an old Turtle — we used 
to call him Tortoise — " 

" Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't 
one ! " Alice asked ? 

" We called him Tortoise because he taught us," 
said the Mock Turtle angrily; "'really you are 
very dull." The Mock Turtle went on. "We 
had the best of educations — in fact, we went to 
school every day — " 

" J 're been to a day-school too," said Alice ; you 
needn't be so proud as all that." 

" With extras ? " asked the Mock Turtle a little 

"Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and 

"And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. 

" Certainly not I'" said Alice indignantly. 

" Ah ! Tlien j-ours wasn't a really good school," 
said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. 
" Now at ours they had at the end of the bill, 
'French, music, and icashing extra.'" 

"You couldn't have wanted it much," eaid 
Alice ; " living at the bottom of the sea." 

" I couldn't afford to learn it," said the Mock 
Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular 

" What was that ? " inquired Alice. 

"Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin 
with," the Mock Turtle replied : " and the differ- 
ent branches of Arithmetic — Ambition, Distrac- 
tion, Uglification, and Derision. There was Mys- 
tery — Mystery ancient and modern, with Seaogra- 
phy : tlien Drawling — the Drawling-master was 
an old conger-eel. that used to come once a week : 
he tauglit us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting 
in Coils." 

" What was that like?" said Alice. 

" Well, I can't show it you, myself," the Mock 
Turtle said : • ' I 'm too stiff. And the Gryphon 
never learnt it. " 

"And how many hours a day did you do les- 
sons? " said Alice. 


"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Tur- 
tle, " nine tlie next, and so on." 

" Wliat a curious plan ! " exclaimed Alice. 

That" s the reason they're called lessons," the 
Gryphon i-emarked; " because they lessen from 
day to day." — Alice in Wonderland. 


The sun was shining on the sea. 

Shining with all his might : 
He did his very best to make 

The billows smooth and bright — 
And this was odd, because it was 

The middle of the night. 

The sea was wet as wet could be, 

The sands were dry as dry. 
You could not see a cloud, because 

No cloud was in the sky ; 
No birds were flying overhead — 

There were no birds to fly. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Were walking close at hand ; 
They wept like anything to see 
Such quantities of sand ; 
*•■ If this were only cleared away " 
Thej said, " it would be grand ! " 

" O Oysters, come and walk with us ! " 

The Walrus did beseech. 
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk. 

Along the briny beach : 
We cannot do with more than four, 

To give a hand to each. 

The eldest Oyster looked at him, 

But never a word he said : 
The eldest Oyster winked his eye, 

And shook his hoary head — 
Meaning to say he did not choose 

To leave the oyster-bed. 

But four young Oysters hurried up, 

All eager for the treat : 
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, 

Their slioes were clean and neat — 


And this was odd, because, you know, 
They hadn't any feet. 

Four other Oysters followed them, 

And yet another four ; 
And thick and fast tliey came at last, 

And more, and more, and more — 
All hopping through the frothy waves. 

And scrambling to the shore. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 

Walked on a mile or so, 
And then they rested on a rock 

Conveniently low : 
And all the little Oysters stood 

And waited in a row. 

" A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, 
" Is what we chieflj- need : 
Pepper and vinegar besides 

Are very good indeed — 
Now if you 're ready. Oysters dear, 

We can begin to feed." 

" But not on us ! " the Oysters cried, 

Turning a little blue. 
" After such kindness, that would be 

A dismal thing to do ! " 
"The night is fine." the Walrus said. 
" Do you admire the view ? 

It was so kind of you to come I 

And you are very nice ! " 
The Carpenter said nothing but 
" Cut us another slice : 
I wish you were no quite so deaf — 

I 've had to ask you twice." 

" O Oysters," said the Carpenter, 
" You 've had a pleasant run ! 
Shall we be trotting home again ? " 

But answer came there none — 
And this was scarcely odd, because 
They 'd eaten every one. 
—Tlirough the Loohing-Glaaa. 


DODSLEY, Robert, an English bookseller 
and author, born in 1703, died in 1764. He 
was originally a servant ; but in 1732 he put 
forth a little volume of poems entitled The 
Muse in Livery, and soon after wrote The 
Toy Shop, a dramatic piece which was acted 
at the Covent Garden theatre in 1735. Aided 
by Pope and others, he opened a bookseller's 
shop in London, an enterprise which was 
very successful, and he became the leading 
publisher of his day, and Avas on intimate 
terms with the principal British authors. He 
established several periodicals; and in 1758 
started The Annual Register, of which Ed- 
mund Burke was the first editor, and Avhich 
has been published ever since. One of his 
principal literary enterprises was the Select 
Collection of Old English Plays (12 vols., 
12mo, 1744), which has been several times re- 
published, with considerable additions; the 
latest edition, (1876) being edited by W. C. 
Hazlitt, and consisting of fifteen volumes. 
Dodsley retired from business in 1763, with a 
large fortune. He wrote several dramas and 
other works, which were collected in 1745 
under the title of Miscellanies, or Trifles in 
Prose and Verse. His Poems are included in 
Chalmers's "Collection of British Poets." 


One kind wish before we part, 

Drop a tear and bid adieu : 
Though we sever, my fond heart, 

Till we meet, shall pant for you. 

Yet, weep not so, my love, 

Let me kiss that falling tear ; 
Though my body must remove, 

All my soul will still be here. 

All my soul and all my heart, 
And every wish shall pant for you ; 

One kind kiss, then, ere we part, 
Drop a tear, and bid adieu. 


DOMETT, Alfred, an English poet, born 
\n 1811 He entered St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, ni 1829, but left without taking a de- 
gree. He traveled in America for a couple 
of years, returning to England in 1836, and 
subsequently resided for two years in Italy 
and Switzerland. In 1841 he was called to the 
bar at Middle Temple. In 1842 he went to 
New Zealand, wliere he had purchased a large 
tract of land, being one of the earliest emi- 
grants to those islands, where he resided 
until 1871 ; holding during those years several 
nnportant civil positions. He put forth sev- 
» eral volumes of poems ; the earliest appearing 
m 1832 ; then appeared Venice (1839). After 
his return from New Zealand he published 
Ranolf and Amohia, a poem descriptive of 
the scenery of New Zealand and its abo- 
riginal inhabitants (1872). In 1877 he made a 
collection of his poems under the title of 
Flotsam and Jetsam, Rhymes Old and New. 
His Christmas Hymn, the most admired of all 
his poems, appeared originally in Blackivood's 
Magazine in 1837. 


It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and lifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wai-s, 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 
'Twas in the calm and silent night, 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 


Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast witl\ thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman wliat befell 
A paltry province far away, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 
Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor : 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable door 
Across his path. He passed, for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought— 
The air, how calm, and cold and thin, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 


O strange indifference ! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 
The earth was still, but knew not why : 

The world was listening unawares.— 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall tlu-ill the world forever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 


It is the calm and silent night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn— 

To it a happy name is given : 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago! 

DONx\LDSON, John William, an English 
scholar, born at London in 1811, died there in 
1861. He was educated at the University of 
London and at Trinity College, Cambridge, 


where he took his degree in 1834. becoming a 
Fellow ill 1835. He subsequently took Orders, 
and became Head Master of the Grammar 
School of Bury St. Edmonds. He resigned 
this position in 1855, and removed to Cam- 
bridge, where he occupied himself as a pri- 
vate tutor, and in writing. In 1856 he was 
appointed one of the Classical Examiners of 
the University of London. His earliest work 
The Theatre of the Crreeks (1837) is still used 
as a college text-book. In 1839 he put forth 
The New Cratylus, being an effort to de- 
velop the principles of comparative philology 
as laid down by Bopp, Grimm, Pott, and 
other German scholars. In his Vurronianus 
(1844) he attempted to do lor Latin philology 
what he had done for Greek in the New Cra- 
tylus. In 1851 he put forth Jashar, an en- 
deavor to restore the lost Hebrew book of 
that name. He also put forth editions of sev- 
eral of the Greek classics; and prepared 
Grammars of the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew 
languages. The N'ew Cratylus is his most 
important work. 


Many i)eople entertain strong prejudices against 
everything in the sliape of etymology — preju- 
dices which woukl be not only just but inevitable 
if etymology, or the doctrine of words, were such 
a thing as they suppose it to be. They consider it 
as amounting to nothing more tlian tlie derivation 
of words from one another ; and as the process is 
generally confined to a pei'ception of some prima 
facie resemblance of two words, it seldom rises 
beyond the dignity of an ingenious pun ; and, 
though amusing enough at times, is certainly 
neither an instructive nor an elevated employ- 
ment for a rational being. 

The only real etymology is that which attempts 
a resolution of the words of a language into their 
ultimate elements by a comparison of the greatest 
possible number of languages of the same fam- 


ily. Derivation is, strictly speaking, inapplica- 
ble farther than as pointing out the manner in 
which certain constant syllables, belonging to the 
pronominal or formative element of inflected 
languages, may be prefixed or subjoined to a given 
form for the expression of some secondary or de- 
pendent relation. In oi-der to arrive at the 
primary origin of a word or a form, we must get 
beyond the narrow limits of a single idiom. In- 
deed, in many cases tlie soui-ce can only be traced 
by a conjectural reproduction based on the most 
extended comparison of all the cognate languages : 
for when we take some given variety of human 
speech, we find it in systems and series of words 
running almost parallel to one another, but pre- 
senting such resemblances in form and significa- 
tion as convince us tliat, thougli apparently 
asyniptotes. they must have converged in the form 
which we knovv^ would potentially contain them 
all. This reproduction of the common mother of 
our family of languages, by a comparison of the 
features of all her children, is the most gen- 
eral object to which the efforts of the philologer 
should be directed ; and this — and not a mere de- 
rivation of words from one another — constitutes 
the etymology that is alone worthy of the name. 
— Preface to the New Cratyhis. 


Education is of two kinds : It is either general 
or professional : it is either designed for the culti- 
vation of the intellect and the development of the 
reasoning faculties — which all men have in com- 
mon, though not perhaps to the same degree — or 
it is calculated to adapt him for some particular 
calling, which the laws of society — on the princi- 
ple of the division of labor — have assigned to him 
as an individual member of the bodj- politic. 
Now the education of the individual for this par- 
ticular purpose is not an education of man as 
such ; he might do his particular work as well or 
better if you deprived him of all his speculative 
faculties, and converted him into an automaton. 
In short, the better a man is educated profession- 


ally, the less he is a man ; for, to use the words 
of Ralph Waldo Emerson, ' ' The planter, who is 
Man sent out into the world to gather food, is sel- 
dom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his 
ministry. He sees his bushel and liis cart, and 
nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, in- 
stead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarce- 
ly ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is 
ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is 
subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form ; 
the attorney, a statute-book ; the mechanic, a ma- 
chine ; the sailor, a rope of a ship. " 

It was for this reason that the clear-headed 
Greeks denied the name of education {Paideia) 
to tliat which is learned for the sake of some ex- 
trinsic gain, or for the sake of doing some work, 
and distinguished formally between those studies 
which they called " liberal," or worthy of a free 
man, and those which were merely mechanical 
and professional. In the same way Cicero speaks 
of education, properly so called, which he names 
•' humanity " {Humanitas), because its object is to 
give a full development to those reasoning facul- 
ties wTiich are the proper and distinctive attributes 
of man as such. Now we do not pretend that 
philology is of any mechanical or professional 
use ; for we do not call Tlieology a profession ; it 
is merely a branch or application of philology. 
We do not say that philology will help a man to 
plough or to reap ; but we do assert that it is of 
the highest use as a part of humanity, or of edu- 
cation, properly so called. 

The test of a good education is the degree of 
mental culture which it imparts ; for education , 
so far as its object is scientific, is the discipline of 
the mijid. The reader must not overlook what is 
meant by the word mind when used in reference 
to education. That some dumb animals are pos- 
sessed of a sort of understanding is admitted ; but 
it has never been asserted that they enjoy the use 
of reason. Man, however, has the faculty called 
reason in addition to his understanding ; he has a 
power of classifying or arranging, abstracting and 
generalizing, and so arriving at principles. In 


other words, his mind is capable of method. . . . 
Accordingly, what we mean by saying that the 
object of education is the cultivation of our 
minds, or that the goodness of an education va- 
ries with the degree of mental culture, amounts 
simply to this, that we better perform our func- 
tions as rational creatures in proportion as we 
carry farther the distinction between ourselves 
and the brute creation ; that is, in proportion as we 
are better fitted for the discourse of reason. — TJie 
New Cratylus, Book I., Chap. 1. 


We think we may fairly assume as the basis of 
our view with regard to the origin of language the 
account given in the Book of Genesis, so far as 
that account is confirmed by the researches of 
modern authors. The results of our philosophy 
are as follows : — 

We find in the internal mechanism of language 
the exact counterpart of the mental phenomena 
which writers on psychology have so carefully col- 
lected and classified. We find that the structure of 
human speech is the perfect reflexion or image of 
what we know of the organization of tlie mind : 
the same description, the same arrangement of 
particulars, the same nomenclature, would apply 
to both ; and we might turn a treatise on the 
philosophy of mind into one on the philosophy of 
language by merely supposing that everything 
said in the former of the thoughts as subjective is 
said in the latter of the words as objective. And 
from this we should infer that if the mind of man 
is essentially and ultimately the same — in other 
words, if man, wherever he lives, under whatever 
climate and with \\hatever degree of civilization 
is still the saiiie animal, the only reasoning and 
discoursing animal — then language is essentially 
the same, and only accidentally different ; and 
there must have been some common point from 
which all the different languages diverged — some 
handle to the fan v hich is spread out over all the 
world — some first and primeval speech ; and that 
this speech was not gradually invented, but neces- 


sarily sprung, all armed like Minerva, from the 
head of the first thinkinj? man, as a iiet-essary 
result of his intellectual conformation. Now this 
agrees with the account in Scriptui'e (Genesis ii., 
10, 20.)— Tfie Xeir Cratyhis, Book I.. Chap. 3. 

DONELLY, Ignatius, an American author, 
born in I'hiladelphin, in is:?l. Ho was edu- 
cated at the llij::li School of that city, studied 
law, and was admitted to the bar in J 853. 
Four years afterward he went to Minnesota, 
was elected Lieutenant-Governor in 1H59 and 
re-elected in 1S61. He has since been a mem- 
ber of Congress during several terms. In 
18S2 he published Atlantis : the Antedilu- 
vian World, in Avhich he advances the theory 
that Plato's account of Atlantis was not a 
fable : that there was an island in the Atlan- 
tic opposite the mouth of the' Mediterranean 
Sea, the true cradle of the Aryan race and 
civilization, from which emigration flowed 
both eastward and w^estAvard, and which was 
at length swallowed up in some great convul- 
sion of nature. He has since published 
Ragnarok : the Age of Fire and Gracel (1882). 


According to the ancient books of Ireland the 
race known as '' Partholan's people,"' the Neure- 
dians, the Fir-Bolgs, the Tua-tha-de Danauns, and 
the Milesians, were all descended from two 
brothers, sons of Magog, son of Japheth. son of 
Noah, who escaped from the catastrophe which 
distroyed his country. Thus all these races were 
Atlantean. They were connected with the Afri- 
can colonies of Atlantis, the Berbers, and with the 
Egyptians. The Milesians lived in Egypt : they 
were expelled thence ; they stopped awhile in 
Crete, then in Scythia, then they settled in Africa 
at a place called Gaethulighe or Getulia, and 
lived there during eight generations, say two 
hurrtlred and fifty years: '■then they entered 
Spain, where they built Brigautia, or Briganza, 


named after their Kin^ Breogan : they dwelt in 
Spain a considerable time. Milesius, a descendant 
of Breogan, went on an expedition to Egypt, took 
part in a war against the Ethiopians, married the 
King's daughter, Scota : he died in Spain, but his 
people soon afterward conquered Ireland. On 
landing on the coast they offered sacrifices to Nep- 
tune or Poseidon " — the god of Atlantis. 

The Book of Genesis gives us the descendants of 
Noah's three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. We 
are told that the sons of Japheth were Gomer, and 
Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and 
Meshech, and Tiras. We are then given the 
names of the descendants of Gomer and Javan, 
but not of Magog. Josep.hus says the sons of 
Magog were Scythians. The Irish annals take up 
the genealogy of ^lagog's family where the Bible 
leaves it. The "'Book of Invasions," the Ciii of 
Drom-Snevhta, claims that these Scythians were 
the Phoenicians ; and we are told that a branch 
of this family were driven out of Egypt in the 
time of Moses. . . . From all these facts it appeal's 
that the population of Ireland came from the 
West, and not from Asia — that it was one of the 
many waves of population flowing out from the 
Island of Atlantis — and herein we find the expla- 
nation of that problem which has puzzled the 
Aryan scholars. As Ireland is farther from the 
Punjab than Persia, Greece, Rome, or Scandina- 
via, it would follow that the Celtic wave of migra- 
tion must have been the earliest sent out from the 
Sanskrit centre ; but it is now asserted by Pro- 
fessor Schleicher and others that the Celtic tongue 
shows that it separated from the Sanskrit original 
tongue later than the others, and that it is more 
closely allied to the Latin than an}- other Aryan 
tongue. This is entirely inexplicable upon any 
theory of an Eastern origin of the Indo-European 
races, but very easily understood if we recognize 
the Aryan and Celtic migrations as going out 
about the same time from the Atlantean fountain- 
head. . . . 

There are many evidences that the Okl World 
recognized Ireland as possessing a very ancient 


Civilization. In tlio Sanskrit books it is referred 
to as Hiranya, the " Island of the Sun," to wit, of 
sun-worship ; in other words, as pre-eminently 
the centre of that religion which was shared by 
all the ancient races of Europe, Asia, Africa, and 
America. It is believed that Ireland was the 
"Garden of Phoebus" of the Western mytholo- 
gists. The Greeks called Ireland the -'Sacred 
Isle," and "Ogygia." "Nor can any one," says 
Camden, " conceive why they should call it Ogy- 
gia, unless, perhaps, from its antiquity ; for the 
Greeks called nothing Ogygia unless what was ex- 
tremely ancient." We have seen that Ogyges was 
connected by the Greek legends with a first deluge, 
and that Ogyges was. "a quite mythical person- 
age, lost in the night of ages." It appears, as an- 
other confirmation of the theory of the Atlantis 
origin of these colonies, that their original religion 
was sun-woi-ship ; this, as was the case in other 
countries, became subsequently overlaid with idol- 
worship. In the reign of King Tighernmas the 
worship of idols was introduced. The priests 
constituted the Order of Druids. Naturally many 
analogies have been found to exist Ix^tween the 
beliefs and customs of tiie Druids and the other 
religions which were drawn from Atlantis. We 
have seen in tlie chapter on sun-worship how ex- 
tensive this form of religion was in the Atlantean 
days, both in Europe and America. — Atlantis. 

DONNE, John, an English clergyman and 
poet, born in London in 1573, died there in 
1631. He studied at Oxford and Cambridge, 
being designed for the legal profession, but in 
his nineteenth year he abandoned law for 
theology. He held several official positions 
until his forty-second year, when he took 
Holy Orders. He distinguished himself as a 
preacher, and was made chaplain-in-ordinary 
to the King, and Dean of St. Paul's. Donne 
wrote sermons, devotional and controversial 
treatises, poetical satires, elegies, and epi- 
grams. His life was written by Izaak Wal- 
ton. A complete edition of his works, in six 


volumes, was issued in 1839, undei' the edi- 
torial care of Dean Alford. 


Think in how poor a prison thou didst He ; 

But think that Death hath now enfranchised thee I 

And tliink this slow-paced Soul, which late did 

To a body, and went but by that body's leave. 
Twenty, perchance, or thirty miles a day, 
Dispatches in a minute all the way 
Twixt heaven and earth ! She stays not in the air, 
To look what meteors there themselves prepare ; 
She carries no desire to know, nor sense. 
Whether the air's middle region is intense ; 
For the element of fire, she doth not know 
Whether she passed by such a place or no ; 
She baits not at the moon, nor cares to try 
Whether in that new world men live and die ; 
Venus retards her not to inquire how she 
Can — being one star — Hesper and Vesper be. 
He that charmed Argus's eyes, sweet Mercury, 
Works not on her who now is grown all eye ; 
W^ho, if she meet the body of the Sun, 
Goes through, not staying till her course be run ; 
Who finds in Mars's camp no corps of guard ; 
Nor is bv Jove, nor by his Father barred ; 
But, ere she can consider how she went. 
At once is at, and through, the firmament : 
And, as these stai-s were but so niany beads 
Strung on one string, speed vindistinguished leads 
Her througli those spheres, as through those beads 

a string. 
Whose quick succession makes it still one thing : 
As doth the pith which, lest our bodies slack. 
Strings fast the little bones of neck and back. 
So by the Soul doth Death string Heaven and 



Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful : for thou art not so : 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost over- 


Die not — poor Death ; nor yet canst tliou kill nie. 
From Rest and Sleep, which hut thy picture he, 
5Iuch pleasure ; then from thee much more 

must flow. 
And soonest our best men with thee do go 
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery ! 

Thou 'rt slave to Fate, Chance, Bangs, and 
desperate Men 
And dost with Poison, War, and Sickness dwell ; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well. 
Or better, than tliy stroke : Why swell'st thou 
then ? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt 


She who had here so much essential joy, 
As no chance could distract, much less destroy ; 
Who with God's jjresence was acquainted so 
(Hearing and speaking to him) as to know 
His face in any natural stone or tree 
Better than when in images they be ; 
Who kept, by diligent devotion, 
God's image in such rei)aration 
Within her heart, that what decay was grown 
Was her first Parents' fault, and not her own ; 
Who being solicited to any act. 
Still heard God pleading his pre-contract ; 
Who by a faitliful confidence was here 
Betrothed to God, and now is married there : 
Whose twilights were more clear than our mid- 
day ; 
Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray ; 
Who, being here filled with grace, yet strove to be. 
Both where more grace and more capacity 
At once is given. She to heaven is gone, 
Who made this world in some proportion 
A heaven, and here became unto us all 
Joy (as our joys admit) essential. 


As virtuous men pass mildly away, 
And whisper to their souls to go ; 


Whilst some of their sad friends do say, 
The breath goes now — and some say, No ; 

So let us melt, and make no noise, 

No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move ; 

'Twere profanation of our joys 
To tell the laity our love. . . . 

But we 're by love so much refined, 
That ourselves know not what it is 

Inter-assured of the mind, 
Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls, therefore — which are one — 
Though I must go, endure not yet 

A breach, but an expansion. 
Like gold to airj' thinness beat. 

If they be two, they ai-e two so 
As stiff twin compasses are two : 

Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show 
To move, but doth, if the other do. 

And though it in the centre sit. 
Yet when the other far doth roam, 

It leans, and hearkens after it. 
And grows erect as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 
Like the other foot, obliquely run ; 

Thy firmness makes my circles just, 
And makes me end where I begun. 


Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
Great Love, some legacies : — I here bequeath 
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see : 
If they be blind, then, Love, I givethem thee ; 
My tongue to Fame ; to Ambassadors mine ears ; 

To Women, or the Sea, my tears ; 
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore 
By making me serve her who had twenty more, 
That I should give to none but such as had too 
much before. 


My constancy I to the Planets give ; 
'Sly truth to theni who at Court do live ; 
Mine ingenuity and openness 
To Jesuits ; to Buffoons my pensiveness ; 
Mj- silence to any who abroad have been ; 

My money to a Capuchin ; 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 
To love there, where no love received can be, 
Only to give to such as have no good capacity. 

My faith I give to Roman Catholics ; 
All my good works unto the Schismatics 
Of Amsterdam ; my best civility 
And courtship to an University ; 
My modesty I give to Soldiers bare ; 
My patience let Gamesters share ; 
Thou, Love, tauglit'st me, by making me- 
Love her that holds my love disparity. 
Only to give to those that count my gifts 

I give my reputation to those 

Which were my Friends ; mine industry to Foes ; 

To Schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ; 

My sickness to Physicians, or Excess ; 

To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ ; 

And to my Company my wit. 
Thou, Love, by making me adore 
Her who begot tliis love in me before, 
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when 
I do but restore. 

To him for whom the Passing-bell next tolls 
I give my physic-books : my written rolls 
Of moral councils I to Bedlam give ; 
My brazen medals unto them which live 
In Want of Bread to them which pass among 

All Foreigners, my English tongue. 
Thou, Love, by making me love one 
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion [tion. 

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus dispropor- 

Therefore I '11 give no more ; but I 'U undo 
The world by dying, because love dies too. 
Then all your beauties will be no more worth 


Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth ; 
And all your graces no more use shall have 

Than a sun-dial in a grave. 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me 
Love her who doth neglect both me and thee, 
To practice this one way to annihilate all three. 

DORAN, John, a British litterateur, born 
in Ireland in 1807, died in 1878. He resided 
for many years in France and Germany, 
receiving the degree of Ph. D. from the Uni- 
versity of Marburg. Going to London, he 
engaged in literary work, and was editorially 
connected with the Athenceum, Notes and 
Queries, and other periodicals. His principal 
works are. Table Traits, etc. (1854), Habits 
and Men, and Lives of the Queens of the 
House of Hanover (1855), Knights and their 
Days (1856), Monarchs retired from Business 
(1857), Court Fools (1858), New Pictures and 
Old Panels (1859), Lives of the Princesses of 
Wales (1860), The Bentley Ballads (1861), 
Their Majesty's Servants, that is Play-actors 
(1863), Saints and Sinners (1868), A Lady of 
the Last Century (1873). 


With respect to the style and title of kings, it 
may be here stated that the royal ' ' We " repre- 
sents, or was supposed originally to represent, the 
source of the national power, glory, and intel- 
lect in the august person of a sovereign. Le Roi le 
veid — " the King will have it so " — sounded as ar- 
rogantly as it was meant to sound in the royal 
Norman mouth. It is a mere form, now that 
royalty in England has been relieved of responsi- 
bility. In haughtiness of expression it was match- 
ed by the old French formula at the end of a 
decree: " For such is our good pleasure." The 
royal subscription in Spain, Yo, el Re — "I, the 
King" — has a thundering sort of echo about it too. 
The only gallant expression to be found in royal 
addresses was made by the kings of France — that 


is, by the married kings. Thus, when the French 
monarch summoned a council to meet upon affairs 
of importance, and desired to have around him 
the princes of the blood and the wiser nobility of 
the realm, his Majesty invariably commenced his 
address with the words. " Having previously con- 
sulted on this matter with the queen," etc. It is 
very probable, almost certain, that the king had 
done nothing of the sort ; but the assurance that 
he had, seemed to give a certain sort of dignity to 
the consort in the eyes of the grandees and the 
people at large. Old Michel de MaroUes was 
proud of this display of gallantry on tlie part of 
the kings of France. "According to my think- 
ing," says the garrulous old abbe of Villeloin, 
"this is a matter highly worthy of notice, al- 
though few persons have condescended to make 
remarks thereon down to this jiresent time." It 
may here be added, with respect to English kings, 
tliat the first " king's speech " ever delivered was 
by Henry I., in 1107. Exactly a century later, 
King John first assumed the royal " We :" it had 
never before been employed in England. The 
same monarch has the credit of having been the 
first English king who claimed for England the 
sovereignty of the seas. "Grace," and "My 
Liege," were the ordinary titles by which our 
Henry IV. was addressed. "Excellent Grace" 
was given to Henry VI., who was not the one, 
nor yet had the other, Edward IV. was " Most 
High and Mighty Prince ; " Henry VII. was the 
first Englisli ••Highness:" Henry VIII. was the 
first complimented by the title of "Majesty;'" 
and James I. prefixed to the last title " Sacred and 
Most Excellent." — Monarchs retired from Busi- 


The Queen was introduced to the citizens of 
London on Lord-Mayor's Day ; on which occasion 
they may be said emphatically to have " made a 
day of it." They left St. James's Palace at noon, 
and in great state, accompanied by all tlie ro^al 


family, escorted by guards, and cheered by tlie 
people, whose particular holiday was thus shared 
in common. There was the usual ceremony at 
Temple Bar of opening the gates to royalty, and 
giving it welcome ; and there was the once usual 
address made at the east end of St. Paul's Church- 
j-ard, by the senior scholar cf Christ's Hospital 
school. Having survived the cumbrous formali- 
ties of the first, and smiled at the llowery figures 
of the second, the royal i>arty proceeded on their 
way, not to Guildhall, but to the house of Mr. 
Barclay, the patent-medicine vendor, an honest 
Quaker whom the king respected, and ancestor to 
the head of the firm whose name is not unmusical 
to Volscian ears — Barclay, Perkins & Co. Robert 
Barclay, the only surviving son of the author of the 
same name, who wrote the celebrated Apology 
for the Quakers, and who was now the king's 
entertainer, was an octogenarian, who had enter- 
tained in the same house two Georges before he 
had given welcome to the third George and his 
Queen Charlotte. The hearty old man, without 
abandoning Quaker simplicity, went a little be- 
yond it, in order to do honor to the j'oung queen ; 
and he hung his balcony and rooms with a bril- 
liant crimson damask, tiiat must have scattered 
blushes on all who stood near — particularly on 
the cheeks of the crowds of " Friends " who had 
assembled within the house to do honor to their 

Queen Charlotte and George III. were the last 
of our sovereigns who thus honored a Lord-Ma}'- 
or's show. And as it was the last occasion, and 
that the young Queen Charlotte was the heroine of 
the day, the opportunitj^ may be profited bj' to 
show how that royal lady looked and bore herself 
in the estimation of one of the Miss Barclay's, 
whose letter, descriptive of the scene, appeared 
forty-seven years subsequently, in 1808. The fol- 
lowing extracts are Aery much to our purpose : 
"About one o'clock papa and mamma, with sister 
Western to attend them, took their stand at the 
street-door, where my two brotliers had long been 
to receive the nobility, more than a hundred of 


whom were then waiting in the warehouse. As 
the royal family came, they were conducted into 
one of the counting-houses, which was transform- 
ed into a very pretty parlor. At half-past two 
their majesties came, which was two hours later 
than they intended. On the second pair of stairs 
was placed our own company, about forty in 
number, the chief of whom were of the Puritan 
order, and all in their orthodox habits. Next to 
the drawing-room doors were placed our own 
selves, I mean papa's children, none else, to the 
great mortification of visitors, being allowed to 
enter : for as kissing the king's hand without 
kneeling was an unexampled honor, the king con- 
fined that privilege to our own family, as a return 
for the trouble we had been at. After the royal 
pair had shewn themselves at the balcony, we 
were all introduced, and you may believe, at that 
juncture, we felt no small palpitations. The king 
met us at the door- a condescension I did not expect 
—at which place he saluted us with great politeness. 
Advancing to the upper end of the room, we kiss- 
ed the queen's hand, at the sight of whom we were 
all in raptures, not only for the brilliancy of her 
appearence, which was pleasing beyond descrip- 
tion, but being throughout her whole person pos- 
sessed of that inexpressible something that is be- 
yond a set of features, and equally claims our at- 
tention. To be sure, she has not a fine face, but 
a most agreeable countenance, and is vastly gen- 
teel, with an air, notwithstanding her being a 
little woman, truly majestic. . . . The king never 
sat down, nor did he taste anything during the 
whole time. Her majesty drank tea, which was 
brought her on a silver waiter by brother John, 
who delivered it to the lady-in-waiting, and she 
presented it kneeling. The leave they took of us 
was such as we might expect from our equals ; 
full of apologies for our trouble for their enter- 
tainment — which they were so anxious to have 
explained, that the queen came up to us, as we 
stood on one side of the door, and had everj' word 
interpreted. My brothers had the honor of assist- 
ing the queen into her coach. Some of us sat up to 


see them return, and the king and queen took 
especial notice of us as they passed. The king or- 
dered twenty-four of liis guard to be placed oppo- 
site our door all night, lest any of tlie canopy 
should be pulled down by the mob, in which [the 
canopy, it is to be presumed] there were one hun- 
dred yards of silk damask."— ^eens of the Hoiise 
of Hanover. 


The first congress of ecclesiastical savants that 
ever met to deal with this question, was composed 
of prelates who met at Jerusalem, at the begin- 
ning of the third century, by order of Pope Victor. 
Their first object was to settle the exact day on 
which the earth sprang from chaos, in order, they 
said, that something salutary might be ordained 
respecting the observation of Easter. The process 
, by which they arrived at the desired conclusion, 
is told at considerable length by Bade, and the 
conclusion was this :— The world was made on 
Sunday, in the Springtime, at the equinox, on the 
eighth of the Kalends of April, when the moon 
was at the full ! The course of the argument 
which sustained this very definite conclusion was 
tliis :— God rested on the seventh day, which was 
the Sabbath, or Saturday, after making the world 
in six days. He must therefore have begun on 
the first, which was Sunday ; then, as the earth 
brought forth grass and herb yielding seed, and 
trees yielding fruit, the not very logical conclu- 
sion was, that the world started on its career in 
fair Springtime. As God divided the light and 
the darkness, the day and night which he had 
created, into equal parts, there scarcely required 
further proof to show that this must have been 
the equinox — in other words, and for greater ac- 
curacy, the eighth of the Kalends of April ; and, 
finally, the moon must have been full at the time, 
seeing that God made the two great luminaries 
that " they might give light upon the earth, the 
greater luminary in the beginning of the day, the 
lesser one in the beginning of the night. It 
could not have been thus," said the bishops, '• un- 


less the moon were at the full." By this sort of 
reasoning, the prelates established an error that 
was long accepted for truth : and probably no 
vulgar fallacy was ever conceived, fashioned, 
forged, and beat into shape with such circum- 
stance ajid ceroniony as this which dated tlie Crea- 
tion on a Spring Sunday in March, when the moon 
was at the full. — Saint.s and Sinners. 

DORNER, Isaac August, a German theo- 
logian, born in 1809. He studied at Tiibin- 
gen, became a curate in his native village in 
Wiirtemberg ; subsequently visited Holland 
and England in order to become acquainted 
with the condition of the Protestant denomi- 
nation.s in those countries. In 1838 he was ap- 
pointed to the chair of Divinity at Tiibingen : 
subsequently to a corresponding position at 
Kiel, Konigsberg, Bonn, and lastly, in 1862, 
at Berlin. He has contributed largely to 
current theological literature. His principal 
works are TTie History of the Development of 
the Doctrine of the Person of Christ (1839>, 
and The History of Protestant Theology 
(1867), both of which have passed through 
several editions, and have been translated 
into English. 

LUDWIO LAVATER (1527-1586.) 

Lavater was, like Klopstock, a poetic genius 
and full of feeling, but his imagination was less 
rich, and he had more tenderness than power. 
Together with a breadth and versatility for the re- 
ception of outward impressions, he exhibits a vig- 
orous concentration upon the central part of his 
mental life, ami it is the loyalty of a grateful 
heart which binds him to the Person of Christ. 
His chief concern is not exactness of doctrine, 
but that higher life which emanates from Christ. 
He, too, favors the view which regards Christian- 
ity as the religion of humanity, but he seeks the 
tme man, and finds only wretched rmns of the 
tnie human image where this has not been rein- 


stated by the Saviour. His l^'ric poetry, like his 
other Hterary productions, aims at something 
more than to describe and to please , it does not 
satisfy him to collect all that is great and beauti- 
ful in history, nor to idealize realit}' through tlie 
power of imagination ; he is concerned for a real 
idealization, a moral transfiguration of the disfig- 
ured and obscured image of man. His desire is 
that his words and poetry may exert an influence, 
and his is not merely a lyric but an ethic pathos, 
which however but too often delj ;hts in rhetori- 
cal flights. But though he too contributed to the 
formation of that mental atmospheii and temper- 
ament in which the age became susceptible of 
freer and deeper views of life and of religion, he 
also was deficient in the possession of solid objec- 
tive truths, of truths whicli are not only establish- 
ed, but have also been assimilated by the reason, 
in that philosophic mind and in that feeling for 
historical criticism which alone can secure lasting 
influence. Renouncing the quiet but safe path of 
scientific thought, ever seeking after fresh excite- 
ment of feeling, and straining his ideal emotions 
to their highest pitch, Lavater was betrayed both 
in his doctrine of prayer and in his theory of phvsi- 
ognomy, into extravagances which had the effect 
of limiting his influence.— fitsfor^/ of Protestant 

Hamann is a kindred spirit to Klopstock, on ac- 
count both of the profundity and inwardness of 
his Christian feeling and of his enthusiasm for 
Christianity, which he proclaims not in verse, but 
like one exercising the gift of prophecy in the 
primitive church, in language unconnected, in- 
deed, but often sublime, and still oftener enig- 
matical by reason of its fulness of matter and 
abundance of allusion. . . . The freedom and 
largeness of his views raised him above the anxie- 
ties entertained by the pious of his age, because 
deeply rooted as he was in evangelical Christianity, 
he was firmly persuaded of its intellectual superi- 
ority to the whole kin of neologists, and could 


look with triumphant certainty of amusement at 
their efforts to overthrow it. Himself well versed 
in classical antiquity, he recognized the affinity 
of Christianity to all that was eternal in the class- 
ic world. While to the mass of liis contempora- 
ries, Christianity and humanity, historical and 
eternal truth, the human and the Divine, are 
terms expressing irreconcileahle opposites, he is 
able to perceive their unitj'. His favorite thought 
is, omnia divina et humana omnia. The whole 
world is to him full of signs, full of meaning, full 
of the Divine. Man is a tree whose trunk is 
nourished bj- two roots, one of which turns to the 
invisible origin of all things, the other to the 
earthly and the visible. In history — and not 
merely in the history of revelation in the Old and 
New Testaments — he sees the historicalization 
(GeschichtlicJiirerden) the incorporation of the 
eternal ; and faith is, in liis view, the faculty of 
perceiving God's acts in historj- and His works in 
nature, the power of beholding the unity of the 
metaphysical, the eternal and the historical, and 
of intuitively discerning the divine in the tempo- 

His mysticism in not merely the subjective mys- 
ticism of the feelings, but is open to objective con 
Crete matter from nature, and especially from his- 
tory ; in fact it is theosophy. Thus faith being 
the focus which comprehends in its entireness, 
and therefore grasps at its centre of gravity that 
which unbelief separates in either a non-denial or 
material manner, he finds in such faith the truth 
of things {Hyjjostasis), and therefore the source 
of true knowledge. Herein it is tiiat he radically 
differs from the rationalism of the age, which ac- 
knowledges none but eternal truths and accepts 
none but the mathematical mode of proof. He 
sees in such notions only superstition, delusion, 
and philosophic juggling. He is however no 
less opposed to the mere experience of the senses, 
for he perceives that this tends to materialism 
and atheism. Flesh and blood know no other 
God than the universe, no other spirit than the 
letter. He also discovers the inward relation be- 


tween tlie iiitellectualism of orthodoxy and the ra- 
tionuhsui of the age, which alike resolved the 
higher spiritual life into a work of the undex'- 
standing. , The main thing is that that religious 
susceptibility which forms ihe very basis of our 
existence should attain assurance, and be united 
with God by realities which are their own evi- 
dence, and which bring with them conviction to 
the soul. Thus are we transferred from mere 
reasoning, or from the impulses and perceptions 
of the senses, to the atmosphere of true life. 

And here it is specially by means of the docu- 
ments of the history of revelation that — according 
to Hamann — we become conscious of the presence 
of God in history. God, at whose bidding are the 
storm, the tire, and the earthquake, chooses for 
the token of His presence a still small voice which 
we tremble to hear in His word and in our own 
hearts. Grace and truth are not to be discovered 
or acquired, they must be historically revealed. 
Revelation takes the form of a servant both in 
Christ and in the Scriptures ; the eternal history 
bears a human form, a body which is dust and 
ashes and perishable, the visible letter ; but also a 
soul which is the breath of God. And it is by 
such self-humiliation of the Spirit of God to the 
pen of man, such self-abnegation of the Son of 
God, that the Spirit and the Son dwell among us. 

Creation itself is a work of God's word. The 
wish, " speak that I may see Thee " is fulfilled by 
creation. All God's works are tokens of His at- 
tributes, all corporeal nature is a parable of the 
spiritual world. At first, all God's works were a 
word of God to man, emblems and pledges of a 
new, an unutterable union. But sin interposed. 
Separated from God, the world became an enigma 
to us. The knowledge of God, without which 
love to God is impossible, acquaintance and sym- 
pathy being necessary elements of love, is no 
longer possible through the contemplation of His 
works, which less know, and less reveal Him than 
we ourselves. But the books of the covenant as 
well as the book of nature contain secret articles, 
and these God has been pleased to reveal to men 

460 JULIA C. R. DORR. 

through their fellow men. Hence revelation and 
experience, which are intrinsically harmonious, 
are the most indispensable crutch, if our reason is 
not to remain hopelessly lame. God's word is 
heard in nature and in history ; and the noon of 
history, that is God's day, is in Christ. Judaism 
had the word and signs, heathenism reason audits 
wisdom, but Christianitj' is that to which neither 
the men of the letter nor the men of speculation 
could attain ; it is the glorification of manhood in 
the Godhead, and of the Godhead in manhood, 
through tlie Fatherhood of God. He regards re- 
ligious spiritualism, which was then appearing ia 
a deistical form, religious materialism, and literal 
traditionalism as inwardly allied. , . . He holds 
poetry, religion, philosophy, history, scripture, 
and spirit to be intrinsically united, but this union 
he only perceives intellectually and indirectly, 
without the power of making an orderly and con- 
nected statement of the reasons which induce this 
view, — History of Protestant Theology. 

DORR, Julia Caroune (Ripley), an Amer- 
ican author, born in Charleston, S. C, in 
1825. Her father subsequently removed to 
Rutland, Vt., where she married, and has 
since resided. She has written several novels, 
Farmingdale (1854), Lanniere (1856), Sibyl 
Huntington (1869), and Expiation (1873). She 
published a volume of Poems in 1872, Friar 
Anslem and Other Poems in 1879, and After- 
noon Songs in 1886. 


The most noticeable feature of the life at Grey- 
holt had been Mr. Armstrong's extreme devotion 
to Clyde. They had been the most inseparable of 
companions — indeed, the father had seemed ut- 
terly swallowed up in the son, and to have 
merged his existence in his. . . . Now Kenneth's 
devotion to his brother became equally noticeable. 
He seemed to have stepped at once into his fa- 
ther's place. Quietly, unobtrusively, he fiJled 

JULIA C. R. DORR. 461 

Clyde's life from out his own fulness. To leave 
no void, no emptiness there, to crowd his days 
with pleasant doings, to fill his brain with happy 
thoughts, seemed to be the end and aim of his ex- 
istence. Nothing daunted him. nothing repelled 
him. Clyde's freaks of temper, his occasional way- 
wardnesses, his self-will, that would at times over- 
ride all obstacles and overrule all laws, his passion- 
ate impulses, his unreasonable caprices— all these 
seemed only to fill Kenneth with a tenderei-, a more 
long- enduring patience. . . . Their evenings were 
spent chiefly at home in their own cozy library, 
save when, upon clear, moonlit nights, they were 
tempted out for a rapid drive over the sparkling 
snow, or down to the creek, where the glare ice 
waited for the music of the skater's steel. If, 
sometimes, I grew tired of listening to the ticking 
of my clock, or of thinking my own thoughts, and 
throwing a shawl about me, ran over the way to 
see what my neighbors were about, I knew just 
the picture that would greet my eyes as I stepped 
upon the piazza and glanced in at the low win- 
dow. I knew that the small, inlaid centre-table 
with the curiously carved legs would be drawn 
into the middle of the room, in front of the open 
fireplace, where a bright wood fire would be leap- 
ing and sparkling. Upon one side of it I should see 
the lamplight falling upon Kenneth's dark-brown 
hair, tossed carelessly back from a low, broad 
forehead, kindling his cool gray eyes into subtle 
fire, and lending his cheek a warmer glow ; on 
the other, Clyde's curls of reddish gold would be 
catching a deeper tint from the glowing flames, 
and his large, black eyes would be flashing with 
merriment, or earnest with thought. The table 
between them would be loaded with books, mag- 
azines, reviews, and newspapers. They would 
be reading together ; or, with books dropped 
upon their knees, they would have floated off upon 
some sparkling tide of talk, Or the red and 
white chessmen would be waging mimic war, and 
kings and queens, knights and bishops, would be 
trembling in dire dismay. And I knew that as my 
step crossed the threshold, the books would be 

462 JULIA C. R. DORR. 

thrown down, or the chessmen be made to beat an 
ignominious retreat, and two young voices that I 
had learned to love would vie with each other in 
welcoming me. Then mayhap, Patsy would come 
in with a basket of rosy-cheeked apples, or a dish 
of hickory -nuts ; and sometimes, though very 
rarely, slie would join the little circle. . . . 

I watched Kenneth closely that winter. He was 
a curious study to me. Since that one conversa- 
tion dunng the course of which he had said to 
me, ''It is not that ; God help me, but it is not 
that ! " he had never alluded to the matter. 
Whatever the burden might be that had fallen 
upon his young shoulders — or that he had volun- 
tarily lifted to them — he bore it silently, un- 
complainingly. He had changed. He seemed 
suddenly to liave sprung out of youth into mature 
manhood. The vague unrest, the eager longing 
of the spring, had settled into something akin to 
the fulness, the rich repose of summer. Was he 
happy ? I doubted it sometimes, when I saw the 
far-away look in his eyes, f)r caught a gleam like 
the bursting forth of smouldering flame. But he 
was cheerful ; he was at rest. As Patsy liad said, 
he was firm as a rock ; and having once chosen 
his lot, he accepted it— he had no regrets, no mis- 
givings. — Expiation. 


Little store of wealth have I, 

Not a rood of land I own ; 
Nor a mansion fair and high, 

Built of towers of fretted stone. 
Stocks nor bonds, nor title-deeds, 

Flocks nor herds have I to show ; 
When I ride, no Arab steeds 

Toss for me theii- manes of snow. 

I have neither pearls nor gold. 

Massive plate, nor jewels rare ; 
Broidered silks of wealth untold, 

Nor rich robes a queen might wear. 
In my garden's narrow bound 

Flaunt no costly tropic blooms, 


Ladenmg all the air around 
With a weight of rare perfumes. 

Yet to an immense estate 

Am I heir by grace of God — 
Richer, grander than doth wait 

Any earthly monarch's nod. 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Heir of all that they have wrought, 
All their store of emprise high, 

And their wealth of precious thought. 

Every golden deed of theirs 

Sheds its lustre on my w^ay ; 
All their labors, all their prayers. 

Sanctify this present day ! 
Heir of all that they have earned 

By their passion and their tears — 
Heir of all that they have learned 

Through the weary toiling years I 

Heir of all the faith sublime 

On whose wings they soared to heaven ; 
Heir of every hope that Time 

To Earth's fainting sons hath given ! 
Aspirations pure and high — 

Strength to dare and to endure — 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Lo ! I am no longer poor ! 


How can I cease to pray for thee ? Somewhere 
In God's great universe thou art to-day. 

Can he not reach thee with his tender care ? 
Can he not hear me when for thee I pray ? 

What matters it to him who holds within 
The hollow of his hand all worlds, all space, 

That thou art done with earthly pain and sin ? 
Somewhere within his ken thou hast a place. 

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of him ; 

Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; 
And somewhere still there may be valleys dim 

That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime. 

464 JULIA C. R. DORR. 

Then all the more because thou canst not hear, 
Poor human words of blessing will I pray. 

O true, brave heart ! God bless thee, wheresoe'er 
In his great universe thou art to-day. 


O thou Guest so long delayed, 
Surely, when the house was made, 
In its chambers wide and free, 
There was set a place for thee. 
Sure^}- in some room ^^•as spread 
For thj' sake a snowy bed, 
Decked with linen white and fine, 
Meet, O Guest, for use of thine. 

Yet thou hast not kept the tryst. 
Other guests our lips have kissed : 
Other guests have tarried long, 
Wooed ])}' sunshine and by song ; 
For the year was bright with May, 
All the birds kept holiday. 
All the skies were clear and blue, 
When this house of ours was new. 

Youth came in with us to dwell, 
Crowned with rose and asphodel. 
Lingered long, and even yet 
Cannot quite his haunts forget. 
Love hath sat beside our board, 
Brought us treasures from his hoard. 
Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine. 
Vintage of the hills divine. 

Down our garden path has strayed 
Young Romance, in light arrayed ; 
Joy bath flung her garlands wide ; 
Faith sung low at eventide ; 
Care hath flitted in and out ; 
Sorrow strewn her weeds about ; 
Hope held up her torch on high 
When clouds darkened all the sky. 

Pain, with pallid lips and thin, 
Oft hath slept our house within ; 
Life hath called us, loud and long, 

Earl of DORSET. 465 

With a voice as trumpet strong. 
Sometimes we have thought, O Guest, 
Thou wert coming with the rest. 
Watched to see thy shadow fall 
On the inner chamber wall. 

For we know that, soon or late. 
Thou wilt enter at the gate. 
Cross the threshold, pass the door, 
Glide at will from floor to floor. 
When thou comest, by this sign 
We shall know thee. Guest divine ; 
Though alone they coming be, 
Some one must go forth with thee ! 

DORSET, (Charles Sackville), Earl of, 
an English courtiei' and verse- writer, born in 
1637, died in 1706. He ^vas a favorite at the 
Courts of Charles II. and of William III. He 
was a friend and patron of the poets of his 
day, and had a high reputation as an accom- 
plished man of letters ; but his writings con- 
sist only of a few lively songs. The best of 
these is a song popularly said to have been 
composed on board sliip the night before a 
famous naval battle with a Dutch fleet in 1665. 
Sackville (then Lord Buckhursti was on board 
the English flag-ship as a volunteer at this 
engagement; but the poem was actually 
written several months previously. 

TO all ye ladies now at land. 
To all you ladies now at land. 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The Muses now, and Neptune too, 
We must implore to write to you. 
Witli a fa, la, la, la, la. 

For though the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptuiie rouse the wind. 

4f)G Eari. of DORSET. 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen and ink, and we, 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Then, if we write not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind ; 
Nor yet conclude our ships ai'e lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind : 
Our tears we "11 send a speedier way — 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

The king with wonder and surprise, 
Will swear tlie seas grow bold ; 

Because the tide will higher rise 
Than e'er they used of old : 

But let him know it is our tears 

Brings floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story. 
The Dutcli would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree ; 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who 've left their hearts behind? 
W^ith a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Let wind and weather do its worst, 

Be you to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchman vapor, let Spaniards curse, 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who 's our friend or who 's our foe. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

To pass our tedious hours away, 

We throw a merry main ; 
Or else at serious ombre play ; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's I'uin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 


But now our fears tempestuous grow, 

And cast oiu* hopes away : 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

When any mournful tune you hear, 

That dies in every note, 
As if it sighed with each man's care 

For being so remote ; 
Think then how often love we 've made 
To you, when all those tunes were played. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

In justice, you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress, 
When we for hopes of honor lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves uiore worthy of your love. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

And now we 've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears, 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears ; 
Let 's hear of no inconstancy. 
We have too much of that at sea. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

DOUGLAS, Gawin, a Scottish ecclesiastic 
and poet, boi-n about 1474, died in 1521. He 
was a younger son of Archibald Douglas, 
Earl of Angus, known as ' ' Bell-the-Cat. " He 
was educated for the Church, and at the age 
of twenty-two was made Rector of Hawick. 
He bore a not unimportant part in the civil 
and religious contests of his time. In 1515 he 
was made Bishop of Dunkeld ; a fierce contest, 
lasting several years, sprung up for the pos- 
session of the see ; but in the end those who 
favored Bishop Gawin were routed in a scrim- 


mage at Edinburgh, and he fled to London, 
where he died. Gawin Douglas was a man 
of ability and learning. In 1501 he wrote an 
allegorical poem, The Palace of Honor, which 
bears so marked resemblance to the Pilgrim's 
Progress, that it has been fancied that it 
must have been read by Bunyan. He also 
wrote another allegorical poem, King Hart. 
His most notable work is a translation of the 
^neid into Scottish verse — being, it is said, 
the " first translation of a Latin classic into 
any British tongue." This translation, made 
about 1512, was first printed at London in 
1553, with the following title: "The xiii 
bukes of Eneados of the famose poet Virgil 1, 
translatet out of Tiatyne verses into Scottish 
metir, bi the Reuerend Father in God, Mays- 
ter Gawin Douglas, Bishop of Dunkel, & 
vnkil to the Erie of Angus: euery buke hau- 
ing his perticular prologe." One of the best 
of these Prologues is the following — the origi- 
nal orthography being carefully retained : 


As fresh Aurore, to luiglity Tithon spouse, 

Ished of her saffron bed and ivor house. 

In cram"sy clad and grained violate. 

With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, 

Unshet the windows of her large liall. 

vSpread all with roses, and full of balm royal. 

And eke the heavenly portis chrvstalline 

Upwarps braid, tlie warld till illumine ; 

The twinkling streamers of the orient 

Shed purpour spraings, with gold and azure 

ment. . . . 
Under the bowis bene in lovely vales, 
Within fermance and parkis close of pales. 
The busteous buckis rakis furth on raw, 
Herdis of hertis through the thick wood-shaw. 
The youno; fawns foUowand the dun daes, 
Kids, skippand through, runnis after raes. 
In lyssurs and on leyis, little lambs 
Full tait and trig socht blotand to tlieir dams. 


On salt streams walk Dorida and Thetis, 
By rinnand strandis, Nymphis, and Naiadis, 
"Sic as we clepe wenches and damj sels, 
In gersey groves wanderand by spring wells ; 
Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, 
Plettand their lusty chaplets for their head. 
Some sang ring-sanges, dances, leids, and rounds, 
With voices shrill, while all the dale resounds. 
Whereso they walk into their caroling, 
For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. 
Ane sang : '• The ship sails oure the salt faem. 
Will bring the merchants and my leman hame." 
Some other sings : " I will be blithe and licht, 
My heart is lent upon so goodly wicht." 
And thoughtful lovers rounis tt) and fro. 
To leis their pain, and plein their jolh- woe. 
After their guise, now singand, low in sorrow. 
With heajtis pensive the lang summer's morrow. 
Some ballads list indite of his lady ; 
Some livis in hope : and some all utterly 
Despairit is, and sae quite out of grace, 
His purgatory he finds in ever}- place. . . . 
Dame Natm-e's menstrals, on that other part, 
Their blissful bay intoning every art. 
And all small fowlis singis on the spray. 
Welcome the lord of licht, and lampe of day, 
Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green. 
Welcome quickener of flouriest flouirs sheen. 
Welcome support of every root and vein, 
Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain. 
Welcome the birdis bield upon the brier, 
Welcome master and ruler of the year, 
Welcome weelf are of husbands at the plows. 
Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and bows. 
Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads, 
Welcome the life of every thing that spreads. 
Welcome storer of all kind bestial, 
Welcome be thy bricht beamis, gladdnan all ! 

DOUGLASS, Frederick, an American pub- 
licist and journalist, born a slave in Mary- 
land about 1817. His mother was of un- 
mixed negro blood ; his father was an un- 
known white man. While he was a mere in- 


fant his mother was separated from him. "I 
never, " he says, ' ' saw my mother, to know 
her as such, more than four or five times in 
my hfe ; and each of these times was very 
short in duration and at night. She died 
when I was seven years old." While a hoy he 
came into the possession of several masters, 
from most of whom he received cruel treat- 
ment. At the age of seven or eight he went, 
with his then master, to live in Baltimore. 
He remained in this family about seven 
years, during which time he learned to read 
and write. How he did this he tells in his 


In accomphshing this, I was compelled to re- 
sort to various stratagems. I had no regular 
teacher. My mistress, wlio had kindly commenced 
to instruct me had, in compliance with tlie direc- 
tion of her husband not only ceased to do so, but 
had set her face against my being instructed by 
any one else ; but in teaching me the alphabet she 
had given me the inch, and no precaution could 
prevent me from taking the ell. 

The plan which I adopted, and the one by which 
I was most successful, was that of making friends 
of all the little white boys whom I met in the 
street. As many of these as I could, I converted 
into teachers. With their kindly aid, obtained at 
different times and in different places, I finally 
succeeded in learning to read. AVhen I was sent 
of errands, I alwaj's took my book with me, and 
by going one part of my errand quickly, I found 
time to get a lesson before my return. I used also 
to caiTy bread with me — enough of which was 
always in the house, and to which I was always 
welcome — for I was much better off in this regard 
than many of the poor white children in our 
neighborhood. This bread I used to bestow upon 
the hungry little urchins, who in return, would 
give me that more valuable bread of knowledge. . . 

I was now about twelve years old, and the 


thought of being a slave for life began to bear heav- 
ily upon ray heart. Just about this time I got hold 
of a book entitled Tlie Coluvibian Orator. Among 
much other interesting matter, I found in it a 
"Dialogue between a Master and his Slave." The 
slave was represented as having run away from 
his master three times : the dialogue represented 
the conversation between them when the slave 
was retaken the third time. In this dialogue, 
the whole argument in behalf of slavery was 
brought forward by the master, all of which was 
disposed of by tlie slave. ... In tlie same book 
I met with one of Sheridan's mighty speeches on 
and in behalf of Catholic Emancipation. These 
were choice documents to me. I read them over 
and over again with unabated interest. They 
gave tongue to interesting thoughts of my own 
soul, which had frequently flashed through my 
mind, and died away for want of utterance. — 


The idea as to how I might learn to write was 
suggested to me by being in Durgin and Bailey's 
shipj'ard. and frequently seeing the ship-carpen- 
ters, after hewing and getting a piece of timber 
ready for use, write on the timber the name of 
that part of the ship for which it was intended. 
When a piece was intended for the larboard side, 
it would be marked L ; when a piece was for the 
starboard side it would be marked S. A piece for 
the larboard side forward would be marked LF. 
When a piece was for tlie starboard side forward, 
it would be marked SF. For larboard aft it would 
be marked LA; for starboard aft it would be 
marked SA. I soon learned the names of these 
lettei's, and for what they wei-e intended when 
placed upon a piece of timber in the shipyard. I 
immediately commenced copying them, and in a 
short time was able to make the four letters 
named. After that, when I met with any boy 
whom I knew could write, I would tell him I 
could write as well as he. The next word would 
be, ' ' I don't believe you ; let me see you tiy it. '" I 


would then make the letters wliich I had been so 
fortunate as to learn, and ask him to beat that. 
In this way I got a good many lessons in writing, 
which it is quite possible I sliould never have got- 
ten in any other wa}'. During all tliis time my 
copj'-book was the board fence, brick wall, ana 
pavement : my pen-and-ink was a lump of chalk. 
AVith these I learned mainly how to write. I then 
commenced and continued copying the Italics in 
Webster's Spelling-Book. until I could make them 
all without looking in the book. By this time my 
little master Thomas had gone to school, learned 
how to write, and had written over a number of 
copj'-books. These had been brought home, shown 
to some of our neighbors, and then laid aside. My 
mistress used to go to class-meeting every Mon- 
day afternoon, and leave me to take care of the 
house. When left thus, I used to spend the time 
in writing in the spaces left in Master Thomas's 
copy-book, copying what he had written. I con- 
tinued to do this until I could write a hand very 
similar to that of Master Thomas. Thus, after a 
long tedious effort of years, I finally succeeded in 
learning how to write. — Autobiography. 

Death after death broke up the family oJ 
Fred's master, and he passed into the charge 
of one person and another, usually from a bad 
one to a worse. In 1835 he made a desperate 
but unsuccessful attempt to run away. His 
master resolved to send him to the far South, 
but changed his mind and sent him back to 
Baltimore, hiring him out to a ship-builder, 
with whom he was to leani the art and mys- 
tery of calking vessels. 


In entering the shipyard, my orders were to do 
whatever the carpenters commanded me to do. 
This was placing me at the beck and call of about 
seventy-five men. I was to regard all these as 
my masters ; their word was to be my law. My 
situation was a most trying one. At times I need- 


ed a dozen pairs of hands. I was called a dozen 
ways in the space of a single minute. Three or 
four voices would strike my ear at the same mo- 
ment. It was: — '"Fred, come help me cant this 
timber here?" — '"Fred, come carry this timber 
yonder!" — "Fred, bring that roller here!" — 
'•Fred, go get a fresh can of water!" — "Fred, 
come help saw off the end of this timber ! " — 
" Fred, go quick, and get the crow-bar ! " — "Fred, 
hold on the end of this fall ! "— '• Fred, go to the 
blacksmith's shop, and get a new punch ! " — 
'* Hurrah, Fred, run and bring me a cold-chisel ! " 
— ■' I saj% Fred, bear a hand, and get up a fire as 
quick as lightning, under that steam-box ! " — 
"Halloo, nigger! come, turn this grind-stone!" 
— " Come, come, move, move, and bowse this tim- 
ber forward !" — "I saj', darkey, blast your eyes, 
why don't you heat up some pitch?" — "Halloo ! 
halloo ! halloo ! " (three voices at the same time) 
" Come here ! Go there ! Hold on where you are ! 
Damn you, if you move, I "11 knock your brains 
out ! " 

This was mj' school for eight months ; and I 
might have remained longer but for a most horrid 
fight I had with four of the white apprentices, in 
which my left eye was nearly knocked out, and I 
was horribly mangled in other respects. . . My fel- 
low-apprentices began to feel it degrading to them 
to work with me. They began to put on airs, and 
talk about the "niggers " taking the country, say- 
ing we all ought to be killed ; and, being encour- 
aged by the journeymen, they commenced by 
making my condition as hard as tliey could, by 
hectoring me around, and sometimes striking me. 
I struck back again, regardless of consequences ; 
and while I kept them from combining, I suc- 
ceeded very well ; for I could wliip the whole 
of them, taking them separately. 

They, however, at length combined, and came 
upon me, armed with sticks, stones, and heavy 
handspikes. One came in front with a half brick ; 
there was one on each side of me, and one behind 
me. While I was attending to those in front and 
on either side, the one behind me ran up with a 


handspike, and struck me a lieavy blow upon the 
head. It stunned me. I fell, imd with this they 
all ran upon me, and fell to beating me with their 
fists. I let them lay on for awhile, gathering 
strength. In an instant I gave a sudden surge, 
and rose to my hands and knees. Just as I did 
that, one of their number gave me, with his heavy 
boot, a powerful kick in the left eye. My eyeball 
seemed to have burst. When they saw my eye 
closed, and badly swollen, they left me. With 
this I seized the handspike, and for a time pur- 
sued them. But here the carpenters interfered, 
and I tliought I might as well give it up. It was 
impossible to stand against so many. All this 
took place in the sight of not less than fifty white 
ship-carpenters, and not one interposed a friendly 
word, but some cried, "kill the damned nigger ! 
kill him I kill him I He struck a white person !" 
I found that mv only chance for life was in flight. 
I succeeded in getting away without an additional 
blow ; and barely so ; for to strike a white man is 
death by Lynch law — and that was the law in 
Mr. Gardner's shipyard. . . . 

I went directly home and told my story to Mas- 
ter Hugh. He was very much enraged ; and as 
soon as I got a little the better of my bruises, he 
took me to Esquire Watson's, to see what could 
be done about the matter. Mr. Watson inquired 
who saw the assault committed. Master Hugh 
told him it was done in ]Mr. Gardner's shipyard, 
at mid-day, where there were a large company of 
men at work : "As to that," he said, " the deed 
was done, and there is no question as to who did it." 
The Esquire answered that he could do nothing in 
the case unless some white man would come for- 
ward and testify. He could issue no warrant on 
my word. If I had been killed in the presence of 
a thousand colored people, their testimony com- 
bined would have been insufficient to have arrest- 
ed one of the murderers. Of course it was impos- 
sible to get any white man to volunteer his testi- 
mony in my behalf, and against the white young 
men . — Autobiography. 



Master Hugh, finding he could get no redress, 
refused to let me go back to Mr. Gardner. He 
took me into the shipyard of which he was fore- 
man, where I was immediately set to calking, 
and very soon learned the art of using my mallet 
and irons. In the course of one year I was able 
to command the highest wages given to the most 
experienced calkers. I was now of some import- 
ance to my master. I was bringing him from 
six to seven dollars a week ; I sometimes brought 
him nine dollars a week : my wages were a dol- 
lar and a half a day. After learning how to calk, 
I sought mj- own employment, made my own con- 
tracts, and collected the money which I earned. 
My condition was now much more comfortable. 
When I could get no calking to do. I did nothing. 
I was now getting one dollar and fifty cents per 
day. I contracted for it ; I earned it ; it was paid to 
me ; it was rightfullj^ my own. Yet upon each re- 
turning Saturday night, I was compelled to de- 
liver every cent of that money to Master Hugh. . . 
When I carried to him my weekly wages, he 
would, after counting the money, look me in the 
face, with a robber-like fierceness, and ask. "Is this 
all ? " He was satisfied with nothing less than the 
last cent. He would, however, when I made him 
six dollars, sometimes give me six cents to en- 
coui'age me. — Autobiography. 

Things went on in this way until the he- 
ginning of 1838. Douglass was now a man 
grown, and he had come to the determina- 
tion to find or make a way of leaving his 
master. For this purpose he asked to be al- 
lowed to hire his time from his master. This 
was at first peremptorily refused. But after 
a while, he was allowed to do so upon terms 
fixed by his master. 


I was to be allowed all my time, make contracts 
with those for whom I worked, and find my own 


employment, and in return for this liberty, I was 
to pay him three dollar.s at the end of each week ; 
find myself in calking tools, and in board and 
clothing. M}- board was two and a half dollars a 
week ; this, with the wear and tear of clothing 
and tools, made my regular expenses about six 
dollars a week. This amount I was to make up, 
or relinquish the privilege of hiring my time. 
Rain or shine, work or no work, at the end of 
every week the money must be forthcoming, or I 
must give up my privilege. I found it a hard 
bargain : but, hard as it was, better than the old 
metliod of getting along. It was a step towards 
freedom to be allowed to bear the responsibilities 
of a free man, and I was determined to hold on 
upon it. I bent myself to the work of making 
money. I was ready to work night as well as 
day, and by the most untiring perseverance and 
industry I made enough to pay my expenses, and 
lay up a little money every week. I went on thus 
from May till August. Master Hugh then refused 
to allow me to hire my time longer. — Autobiogra- 

Master Hugh ordered Douglass to bring his 
clothing and tools home. He did so ; but in- 
stead of looking out for employment, did not 
a stroke of work for a week. When Saturday 
night came, Master Hugh demanded his 
wages, as usual. Douglass replied that there 
was no money, as he had earned nothing that 
week, Master Hugh swore and threatened 
Douglass with a thrashing, but wisely kept 
his hands off. The next two weeks Douglass 
went to work, with a will, and on each Satur- 
day night brought his master his full wages. 
Master Hugh was so much pleased with his 
dutifulness that on the last paj'ment he gave 
his slave a quarter of a dollar, telling him to 
make a good use of it. "I told him that I 
would," says Douglass. The fact was that 
all this extra zeal on the part of Douglass was 
merely to blind Master Hugh, and to lead him 


to suppose that he had no intention of running 
away— a step upon which he had fully deter- 
mined. Douglass's account of his escape is 
very brief, for his Autobiography v,- as written 
in 1845, and it would then have been unwise 
to have revealed the means of which he made 


The wretchedness of slavery and the blessedness 
of freedom were perpetually before nie. It was 
Ufe and deatli with me. But I remained firm, 
and, according to my resolution, on the 53d day of 
September, I left my chains, and succeeded in 
reaching New York. . . . Anna, my intended 
wife, a free woman, came on, for I wrote to her 
immediately after my arrival, informing her of 
my successful flight, and wishing her to come on 
forthwith. " —Autobiography. 

Certainly little time had been lost, for 
Douglass left Baltimore on Sept. 3, and just 
twelve days afterwards he and Anna were 
married in New York. The marriage certifi- 
cate reads: "This may certify that I joined 
together in holy matrimony Frederick John- 
son and Anna Murray." How and when Fred- 
erick acquired the name of "Douglass," he 
himself tells : 


The name given me by my mother was ' • Frede- 
rick Augustus Washington Bailey." I, however, 
had dispensed with the two middle names, long 
before I left Maryland, so that I was generally 
known by the name of " Frederick Bailey." I 
started from Baltimore bearing the name of 
"Stanley." When I got to New York I again 
changed my name to "Frederick Johnson," and 
thought that would be the last (-liange. But 
when I got to New Bedford, I found it again ne- 
cessary to change my name. The reason of this 
necessitv was that there were so many Johnsons in 


New Bedford, it was already difficult to distin- 
guish between them. I gave a friend the privi- 
lege of choosing nie a name, but that he must not 
take from me the name of " Frederick." I must 
hold on to that to preserve a sense of my identity. 
He had just been reading The Lady of the Lake, 
and at once suggested that my name be * ' Doug- 
lass." From that time until now I have been 
called '' Frederick Douglass," and as I am more 
widely known by tliat name than by either of the 
others, I sliall continue to use it as my own. — 

New Bedford was thought a safer place 
than New York for a fugitive slave. Doug- 
lass and his wife went thither, and supported 
himself by working at anything he could find 
to do. He soon began to attend anti-slavery 
meetings, speaking now and then with in- 
creii«ing confidence. A speech made in 1841 
brought him to the notice of the leaders in 
the anti-slavery movement and he was en- 
gaged to deliver lectures throughout the New 
England States. In 1845 he published his 
Autobiography in a small volume, which was 
subsequently continued (18.5.5 and 1881). In 
1845 he went to England as a public lecturer. 
Here he remained two years. He was still a 
slave, in the eye of the law, and would be 
hable to be arrested as a fugitive and return- 
ed to his legal master. But his friends in 
England raised £150, with which he bought 
his freedom. He returned to the United 
States and in 1847 started at Eochester, N. Y. , 
a newspaper entitled The North Star, after- 
wards changed to Fred. Douglass's Paper. 
He came to be looked upon as the representa- 
tive man of the colored race. Early in the 
civil war he urged upon President Lincoln 
the employment of colored troops, and when 
this was resolved upon, he Avas very active in 
promoting the enlistment of colored voluii 


teers. After the abolition of slavery he dis- 
continued his paper, and for several years 
was occupied as a public lecturer. In 1870 
he became editor of The New National Era, 
at Washington. In 1871 he was appointed 
Secretary to the Commission to St. Domingo, 
and upon his return received from President 
Grant the appointment of member of the Ter- 
ritorial Council of the District of Columbia. 
In 1872 he was chosen as one of the Presiden- 
tial Electors for the State of New York, and 
was selected to carry to Washington the 
electoral vote. In 1877 he received the lucra- 
tive appointment of U. S. Marshal for the 
District of Columbia, a position which, with 
a short interval, he held until the accession of 
President Cleveland in 1885, when he pre- 
sented his resignation. 


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